


Beneath the Surface

by yana_hallows



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Black Hermione Granger, Black Lavender Brown, F/M, Hogwarts BSU, Hogwarts Sixth Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2020-11-08 14:22:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20836940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yana_hallows/pseuds/yana_hallows
Summary: Hermione Granger and Blaise Zabini are as opposite as two people can get — one is a self-righteous hard-working Muggle-born, the other is a wealthy self-preserving pureblood. Though they have been classmates for five years, they paid each other little mind until Professor Slughorn arrived and invited them both into his exclusive Slug Club. The two soon become thrust together and quickly clash. It’s clear to anyone who sees them that they are in no danger of becoming friends. But Hermione can’t stop thinking about Blaise’s chiseled jaw and tall figure, and Blaise can’t seem to keep his eyes off of her. The two warily embark on a friendship that soon becomes more, while all around them lines are being drawn between purebloods and Muggle-borns, and Lord Voldemort is rising…





	1. The Woes of Imperfection

Hermione Granger walked through the Hogwarts castle with Ginny Weasley, trying to keep her nerves in check. She couldn’t keep her hands still, running them through her thick hair, stuffing them in her pockets, adjusting the collar of her robes as they made their way up to Professor Slughorn’s office.

“It’ll be fine,” Ginny sighed, tucking a lock of her red hair behind her ear. “All Slughorn wants is to fawn over you now so he can say he knew you when later.”

Hermione had heard about the Slug Club from Ginny, Harry, and Neville. From what they’d said, it sounded like a group of kids their new Potions professor Horace Slughorn had chosen as his personal favorites. While she disapproved of the practice, she knew how many connections the man had throughout the wizarding world, and it wasn’t lost on her how important this could be for her future.

“I just can’t believe he invited me.”

Ginny scoffed, “You must be joking.”

Hermione pursed her lips but didn’t respond. The words she knew Ginny was thinking echoed through her brain. She’s the brightest witch in our year. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe it, but the statement felt more like an expectation than a compliment, a threat thinly veiled beneath it. What would happen if she was no longer the brightest? If someone else suddenly studied harder, retained more? What if they realized it was all a lie, just hard work and an unhealthy obsession with getting things right?

She didn’t speak her worries out loud to Ginny — they had plagued her for years even before she’d found out she was a witch, and she knew her best friend’s sister wouldn’t truly understand, even if she tried.

They were the last two to arrive in Slughorn’s office. It was bigger than most of the professors’ offices that Hermione had been to. On the far wall sat a fireplace, a plush emerald couch facing it. Chests and shelves lined the walls, pictures of blinking and smiling people looking out from the tops of almost every surface. A liquor cabinet stood sturdy next to another doorway, which Hermione assumed led to Slughorn’s desk because she couldn’t see it from the entrance. A round mahogany table commanded attention in the center of the main room, surrounded by eight chairs and laden with food Hermione was sure had been brought up by house-elves.

Slughorn’s other guests were awkwardly mingling, a few glancing at them as they entered the room. Of the five other students there, Hermione recognized Ravenclaw fifth year Melinda Bobbin and Slytherin Blaise Zabini. Hermione flushed as she made eye contact with Cormac McLaggen. His eyes were still slightly unfocused from Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts earlier that day, but he smiled at her in what she supposed he thought was alluring. She looked away quickly, to Professor Slughorn, who was dressed in decadent robes of periwinkle.

“Ah, Miss Granger and Miss Weasley! Excellent,” he said, “Let’s all take a seat, shall we?”

They all made their way towards the table, Hermione keeping close to Ginny so that they could sit together. She slid into her seat, her nerves spiking as McLaggen sat heavily in the chair next to her.

“Help yourselves, help yourselves,” Slughorn insisted, reaching for the bowl of buttered peas.

The room was quiet for a moment but for the clinking of dishes. Next to Hermione, McLaggen’s fingers fumbled around the bowl of chicken legs, and it tipped over, the bowl falling with a clatter onto his ornate ivory plate. Ginny snickered and Hermione had to bite her lip to keep from smiling.

“So, Cormac,” Slughorn started as McLaggen rushed to pick up the food, “Have you heard from your uncle recently?”

“I just got a letter from him the other day, as it happens,” McLaggen said with a grating smile, “He’s had quite a lot of work to do at the Ministry, as you can imagine.”

“Of course,” said Slughorn, “There’s quite enough to be going on, what with these perilous times. Still, it doesn’t hurt to plan for the future. Do you think you’ll go into the Ministry like Tiberius?”

The conversation went from there. Slughorn’s small eyes fixed on each of them in turn, interrogating them with updates on their famous or well-connected family members and inquiring about their future goals.

After asking Ginny thoroughly about her hexes and name-dropping the noted author of Harmful Hexes: A Guide to Reactionary Spells Darold Vengecraft, Slughorn turned to Blaise Zabini.

Zabini had been quiet during most of the other conversations, his dark eyes unreadable. Now, he answered Slughorn’s questions graciously, from what new wizard his mother had recently been seen with to what his future aspirations were.

“I’d like to go into the Department of International Magical Cooperation,” he answered, “My mother has taken me on a few of her international trips, so I’m interested in relations between Britain and other countries.”

“An exciting career path!” Slughorn exclaimed, “And one I’m sure you would excel in. I’ll have to connect you with Sandrine Walton, she’s been the head of the department since Barty Crouch’s unfortunate demise. In fact, maybe I should introduce her to Miss Granger as well! The three of you have quite similar backgrounds.”

Hermione was startled at being included, even though she was the only one left to interrogate. She cut her eyes at Zabini briefly, tilting her head in confusion. Though they had had classes together for the past five years, she didn’t know much about the Slytherin other than that he had scoffed at the idea of Harry being the Chosen One on the train to Hogwarts and that she generally saw him alone in the library outside of classes. Was that what Slughorn meant?

Zabini had made a face too, the frown contorting his deep brown face. Suddenly, Hermione realized that they were the only two Black students in the room. Now, she understood.

“Well…” Hermione said, trying to sound diplomatic, “I don’t know if that’s true, exactly. I’m Muggle-born, sir.” That wasn’t to say that being Black didn’t matter in the wizarding world, at least not in Hermione’s estimation. Still, Zabini was the pure-blood son of a famous witch — their backgrounds couldn’t be more different.

“Yes, yes, and I must say again how impressed I am with you,” Slughorn said, transitioning his attention smoothly from Zabini to her, “Mr. Potter spoke so highly of you when first we met, and still you wowed me in our first Potions lesson. With brains like yours, there’ll be many doors open to you once you leave Hogwarts.”

Hermione blushed, feeling pleasure mingled with discomfort. While she had no doubt of the value she could bring to wherever she decided to go, she wondered if what Slughorn said would be true, given the anti-Muggle-born sentiments that had been bubbling under the surface of the wizarding world, now swiftly rising with Voldemort out in the open.

Across the table, an annoyed look flashed across Zabini’s face as he lifted his goblet to his mouth, barely concealing his snort.

Before Hermione could say anything, Ginny spoke up, “Have something to say, do you Zabini?”

He rolled his eyes as he set the cup back down on the table, long fingers wrapped loosely around it. “Only that I don’t know that someone with brains would have been in the middle of that mess at the Ministry.”

Hermione felt a surge of annoyance at the haughtiness on his face. “Perhaps not,” she said, sensing that Ginny was just barely holding back the urge to curse him. She lay a hand on her arm under the table. “But someone with brains would know not to speak about things they know nothing about.”

“Oho!” Slughorn exclaimed, eyes brightening, “How could I forget you were one of the few in the Department of Mysteries in June? Dumbledore is still quite caged about it, but I don’t suppose you could tell us what happened?”

Hermione felt as if a very bright light was shining directly on her, and she suddenly felt wrong. She didn’t want to think about the catastrophe at the Department of Mysteries. She glanced fleetingly at Ginny, who grimaced. Her chest seemed to burn with the memory of the spell Dolohov had thrown at her, knocking her unconscious.

She took a deep breath to center herself. “If Professor Dumbledore won’t say anything about it, I don’t think I should.”

Slughorn frowned, “Oh poppycock. Always the secret keeper, Dumbledore is. But I suppose he’s the only one You-Know-Who ever feared for a reason.”

He moved on then, to asking about Hermione’s background. She answered his questions as truthfully as possible, trying to feel less self-conscious. Everyone listened intently, but for some reason, it wasn’t the fact that McLaggen’s elbow kept “accidentally” bumping into her that bothered her the most, but Zabini’s stare. There wasn’t anything different about his expression, on first glance it seemed to hold a detached interest. Still, Hermione could feel heat rising on her skin under his gaze, and wondered if she was imagining the strange twinkle in his eyes.

…

Overall, the Slug Club seemed fine. Hermione had survived Slughorn’s questions, McLaggen’s clumsy flirting, and Zabini’s sneering. When Ron asked her about it the next morning at breakfast, though she could hear the accusation in his tone, she answered truthfully.

“It was alright,” she shrugged as she scanned the Daily Prophet for any worthwhile news. “About what you would expect.”

Ron scowled and stabbed at a piece of melon on his plate.

He wasn’t the only one, it seemed, who was upset about not being invited to Slughorn’s dinner party.

“Slughorn must be cracking up if he’s forgetting the families who matter,” Malfoy sneered to Crabbe and Goyle as they waited outside of the Transfiguration classroom, his voice carrying across the hall to the Gryffindors. “I mean if he’s letting in filth like Granger—”

“Oh Malfoy if you’re so upset, why don’t you go cry to your father about it?” Hermione said before Harry and Ron could whip out their wands. Ron let out a bark of laughter.

Draco turned pink, “You watch your mouth, Mudblood.”

“Careful,” she said, “Your mother wouldn’t like another of her family members bested by a Muggle-born, would she?”

Draco reached for his wand as Harry drew his in preparation. At that moment, Professor McGonagall rounded the corner, hawklike eyes scanning the hall.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, eyeing the wand in Harry’s hand.

“No, Professor,” Hermione said, grabbing Harry’s arm.

McGonagall narrowed her eyes a moment and then turned, entering the classroom. As Hermione pulled Harry after her, she noticed that Zabini was watching her behind Malfoy, an amused look on his face. The minute he realized she had seen, he looked away, his face falling into its signature scowl.

Hermione turned back to follow Susan Bones through the door, feeling confused. Why would Zabini find anything she said funny — especially when disparaging his own Housemate?

“Hurry and find your seats,” Professor McGonagall called from the front of the room, “We have a lot to cover.”

Hermione made her way to her seat, still pulling Harry along although the danger of him cursing Malfoy had passed. Once she sat down, she decided to disregard Zabini’s strange behavior. Whatever he was thinking didn’t matter. She had magic to learn.

By the time she got to Potions class, she had completely forgotten that morning’s incident. Today, they were working on the Awakening Solution, a potion that increased its drinker’s energy.

Hermione spent the entire hour slaving over her cauldron, making sure she added the minced peppermint at exactly the right moment, plucking the dandelion petals meticulously, and stirring the appropriate amount of counterclockwise times before leaving it to stew for the week. She felt satisfied with the way the yellow liquid shone brightly from her cauldron, and when Professor Slughorn inspected it he exclaimed that her work was very well done.

But when he went to Harry’s cauldron, Slughorn was beside himself. He gushed over him, saying that the shade of marigold that bubbled from Harry’s cauldron could only be the work of a masterful potion maker, the subtlety in the coloring causing him to award twenty points to Gryffindor.

Hermione felt a surge of anger as Harry grinned behind Slughorn’s back at Ron. As far as she was concerned, using the Half-Blood Prince’s textbook was tantamount to cheating, and the praise Harry kept getting grated on her. As Slughorn moved on to Ernie’s neon green liquid with a strained smile, Hermione’s eyes met Zabini’s. Was it her or was the corner of his full lips pulled up? Great, now he was laughing at her, too.

The phrase echoed in her brain again. She’s the brightest witch in our year. Feeling a surge of panic, she tore her gaze away, stuffed her scales in her bag, and stalked off ahead of Harry and Ron as the bell rang.

It wasn’t that she had to be the best in every class — Harry was consistently better than her at Defense Against the Dark Arts and it never bothered her — it was the fact that Professor Slughorn absolutely fawned over Harry when he wasn’t putting in the same effort she was. And what was more, the voice of doubt seemed to be creeping up in her more than usual. If Harry could defeat her with counterfeit instructions, then clearly she wasn’t all that good at Potions to begin with.

“I hope there are mashed potatoes for lunch,” Ron exclaimed, catching up to her.

“Even if there aren’t, you’ll eat everything within a five-person radius,” Harry said with a grin. The Prince’s book was clutched tightly in his hand, his finger holding the place he had been reading before class. Hermione scowled.

She scarfed down her food quickly and hurried off to the library. There was enough time before her next class that she could maybe find something to help her understand more about the properties of the Awakening Solution. She scanned the spines of the books in the Potions section quickly, exhaling as she found A Guide to Precise Potion-Making.

She lugged the heavy book down to the nearest table, dropping her book bag on the chair next to her. She scoured the table of contents before finding the chapter on potion ingredients for alertness. Flipping quickly to the correct page, she began to read.

Based on what was in here, she hadn’t done anything wrong. Odd numbered counterclockwise stirs were better for potions that made the drinkers groggy, but the even number would have the opposite effect. She’d stirred exactly eight times as Advance Potion-Making had told her. Fresher ingredients often yielded better results, and Hermione had only just restocked her peppermint the week before when she realized she had forgotten to get some in Diagon Alley.

“Of course you’ve got the book,” an exasperated voice said above her.

She looked up, surprised. She’d been so absorbed in her reading that she hadn’t noticed anyone else in this section.

Zabini stood at the end of the table, a scowl on his face.

She raised an eyebrow at him, “Can I help you with something?”

“Yeah, that book you’re reading,” he said with a jerk of his head.

“Oh,” she said, “I’m almost done.”

He rolled his eyes, “You don’t even need it, your potion was near-perfect.”

There he was, talking about things he didn’t understand again. She glared at him, “My study habits are none of your business.”

“You know no one’s going to look at you differently if your potion isn’t the precise shade of the summer sun or whatever,” he sounded almost bored, “Everyone knows you know everything.”

Hermione could feel pressure on her chest, heat rising on her cheeks. She slammed the book shut and stood, grabbing her bag and stalking away from him. She made sure to check out A Guide to Precise Potion-Making on her way out of the library.

…

She spent most of her time trying to quell the doubt she felt bubbling up within her every time she failed again at creating the perfect potion. Though there wasn’t much more information in A Guide to Precise Potion-Making that she didn’t already know, Hermione found herself perusing its pages in her free time, trying to forget the way Zabini’s words had needled at her, how they seemed to hit right where she was most sensitive.

A part of this was ignoring her growing irritation with Harry and the Half-Blood Prince, but that was getting more difficult as the weeks passed and autumn arrived in full swing. Apparently, there were spells written in the margins of the wretched book, and Harry had taken to casting them without knowing what it was they would do. Past her own issues, Hermione was appalled by his carelessness.

“It’s nothing, Hermione,” Ron said when she snapped at Harry over it in the common room one evening. He leaned back in his seat, glancing across the room at Lavender Brown, who was pouring over a magazine with her best friend Parvati Patil, “We’re just having a laugh.”

That was the only thing Ron seemed to be relaxed about. He kept making snide comments about the Slug Club whenever he could, suggesting that Hermione liked being “cozied up with McLaggen.” Harry had gotten out of the next two dinners by scheduling Quidditch practices at the same times. While she didn’t begrudge Harry trying to avoid Slughorn’s parties, she hated that his strategy meant that she had to go alone — as Chaser for the Gryffindor team, Ginny’s priority was Quidditch. Hermione saw the value in Slughorn’s dinner parties, and so in the interest of keeping her future options open she hadn’t tried to find a way to get out of them. Still, she was starting to feel more on her own than she had in awhile.

The Slug Club dinners weren’t all that bad though. There was always good food and Professor Slughorn introduced the group to different former students of his who were doing important and interesting work, including the Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Prophet and the drummer of the Weird Sisters. Even still, Hermione felt isolated, the pressure to be perfect constricting around her whenever Slughorn introduced her as “a rising star.”

At the same time, she found herself navigating the strange dynamics of the group. Melinda Bobbin was nice enough, but was far more focused on her own ambitions, while McLaggen was perhaps too nice — he kept hitting her on the shoulder every time he spoke to her or cracked a joke. Tracy Dearborn, a third year whose father had dealings with the American magical government, was too young to really understand the importance of being invited and seemed to only be there for the food.

She wasn’t sure how or why, but of everyone in the Slug Club she felt most aligned with Blaise Zabini. Generally, his quiet face rested on disinterest as he scanned the room. Whenever he was asked a direct question he would answer charmingly, his eyes alight and face with the appearance of being open, but once Slughorn turned from him he would settle back into himself, reserved.

Slughorn was harmless in his praise for the most part, but occasionally he would say something to give her pause, and Hermione would find herself meeting Zabini’s eyes across the room in her exasperation or surprise. Each time, it seemed that he had sought her out as well, the confusion or resignation on his face accompanied by a raised eyebrow or a brief frown.

She wasn’t sure why it kept happening — she hadn’t even addressed him since their clash at the library. Even though they didn’t speak to each other, she couldn’t help but notice him whenever he was in a room, her eyes drifting over his tall figure, his dark skin and chiseled jaw. She had caught him watching her too, and found herself puzzled by his searching gaze.

In mid-October, Slughorn hosted another dinner. This time, the special guest was Quidditch star Gwenog Jones. Hermione felt a surge of vindication when Slughorn introduced her. The irony that Harry was missing something that would actually be of interest to him in his effort to avoid Slughorn wasn’t lost on her.

The feeling was fleeting, however, as most good feelings had been since that past Saturday, when she, Harry, and Ron had witnessed Katie Bell rise up from the snow, jerking and twitching after accidentally touching a cursed necklace.

The entire castle was on edge, full of nerves and fear. Only Harry seemed to be fueled with renewed vigor, despite having his Malfoy-Did-It stance shot down by Professor McGonagall.

Even things between the Slytherins seemed tense; on her way to Charms earlier that day, she had noticed Zabini huddled with Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson, though they’d seemed to be arguing. At the very least, Zabini had looked uncomfortable, and now, sitting across from her at Slughorn’s dinner table, he seemed reserved, quiet even for him. Hermione looked down at her plate. Why did her thoughts keep drifting to the goings on of Blaise Zabini?

As dinner wrapped up, Slughorn made an announcement, “Each year I like to throw a little Christmas party before break,” he said, “I’ll invite some of my former students — Gwenog, you are of course invited — and you should feel free to bring a guest,” his eyes turned to Hermione, “Miss Granger, I’ll need a list of Mr. Potter’s free dates. I won’t have him missing this little soiree.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, feeling awkward. Her eyes met Zabini’s across the table, but his face was blank. She looked back to Slughorn. “I — yes, Professor.”

Harry’s reaction to that bit of information didn’t surprise her when she shared it with him in Herbology class the next day. Neither did Ron’s.

“Stupid name,” he said under his breath as Harry went to retrieve their Snargaluff pod from across the room.

“Look, I didn’t make up the name ‘Slug Club’.” While she understood his anger, she didn’t see why he had to take it out on her.

“Slug Club,” he said derisively as Harry came back, “It’s pathetic. Well, I hope you enjoy your party. Why don’t you try hooking up with McLaggen, then Slughorn can make you King and Queen Slug—”

Hermione’s irritation flared. She had already suspected that he and Harry had been laughing at her being locked up with McLaggen behind her back, but having it thrown in her face was another thing.

“We’re allowed to bring guests,” she threw back at him, “and I was going to ask you to come, but if you think it’s that stupid then I won’t bother!” She’d thought it would be a good idea, asking Ron. That way, the three of them could go together. If Harry invited Neville or Luna, it could be a good time.

Ron opened his mouth to respond, but then shut it, looking cowed. “You were going to ask me?”

“Yes,” Hermione huffed, “But obviously if you’d rather I hook up with McLaggen…”

“No, no, I’ll go,” Ron said hastily.

He acted nicer to her for the rest of the day, and Hermione was relieved. It felt good to not have to be at odds with her friends for some petty reason or another, especially with everything happening outside of Hogwarts. Tales of disappearances and deaths peppered the Daily Prophet and more and more Hogwarts students were being affected; on most days it felt wrong to be arguing over Christmas parties and nastily annotated textbooks.

Their truce didn’t last long, however. Hermione spent her evening in the common room near the fire, cross-checking her Ancient Rune translations with the textbook. She was just packing up when Harry and Ron entered in their Quidditch robes, Ron looking furious.

“What happened?” she asked, sliding the last of her notes into her book bag.

“You — Ginny — Dean!” Ron’s voice sounded strangled with anger.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him, then looked to Harry, hoping he could translate. Surprisingly, even he seemed to be struggling with his own deep-seated emotion. He dropped onto the couch, allowing Crookshanks to leap into his lap.

“We ran into Ginny and Dean on the way back from the pitch,” he said, “They were, er—”

“They were snogging! In the middle of the corridor!” Ron shouted. A couple of first years across the room shot a startled glance at him.

“Okay…” Hermione said, glancing back to Harry again, “And?”

“And so I don’t want my sister out in public like some wanton woman.”

Hermione frowned, “Ron, Ginny and Dean are dating.”

“So?” Ron’s ears were dangerously red.

“So, they’re allowed to snog. You’re being ridiculous.”

“Of course you would think so, given that you’ve snogged Krum.”

Hermione felt confused. Why was her brief relationship with Viktor, from two years ago, being thrown in her face? The fact that they’d kissed wasn’t even a secret, and yet Ron sounded betrayed somehow.

“Well yes,” she said slowly, “I’m still not understanding the problem.”

“The problem is, what are people going to think about our family if Ginny’s running around the castle acting like a—”

“Ginny is her own person,” Hermione cut him off, “Her relationship with Dean has nothing to do with you.”

“Like hell it does! I’m her brother!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. They were tired from staring at her homework in the low light of the fire and frankly Ron’s attitude was starting to grate on her nerves. “Perhaps you need something to keep you occupied? So you’re not so worried about what Ginny is up to?”

Ron’s face was flaming now. He seemed at a loss for words, so instead he cursed and stalked off, stomping up the boys’ staircase to his dormitory. Hermione looked at Harry.

“Honestly, what’s been up with him lately?”

Harry shrugged, seemingly lost in thought. Hermione eyed him closely. She had started to suspect over the summer that he had feelings for Ginny, though she hadn’t brought it up with him. She wondered if his brooding attitude had to do with seeing her with Dean.

“Everything okay, Harry?” she probed.

Harry seemed to snap out of his thoughts, “What? Oh, yeah fine.” He moved Crookshanks from his lap and stood, “I’m going to bed.”

He hurried up after Ron, leaving Hermione once again on her own.

…

That Saturday brought the first Quidditch match of the season. According to Harry, Ron’s anger at Ginny and Dean had not only affected his playing but had almost dissolved the team as well.

“I keep telling you you need to talk to him. He can’t keep treating people like this,” Hermione told Harry as they went through their Transfiguration essays together. Ron had already gone up to bed after snapping at two poor fourth years for laughing too loud. He had been giving her the silent treatment for standing up for Ginny.

“I suppose you’re right,” Harry mumbled, sinking down further into his chair. The prospect didn’t seem to excite him.

Still, Hermione had been sure he would do it, especially with Quidditch on the line. She knew Harry wouldn’t be able to face it if he lost his first match as Captain, and to Slytherin at that. But if he had tried to set Ron straight, it didn’t make for a marked change in his attitude.

She came down to the Gryffindor table by herself that morning, tired of bickering with a grumpy Ron and exchanging helpless glances with Harry. She saw them sitting amidst the sea of red and gold, Harry trying to coax food into Ron, who looked slightly ill, his skin tinged green. She paused behind them as Harry poured pumpkin juice into a goblet.

“How are you both feeling?” she asked tentatively, glancing at Ron.

“Fine,” said Harry. He tipped the contents of a small vial into the cup with the juice, “There you go, Ron. Drink up.”

Ron started to take a sip when Hermione shouted, “Don’t drink that Ron!”

Both Harry and Ron looked up at her. Hermione stared at Harry in disbelief.

“You just put something in that drink.”

“Excuse me?”

“You just tipped something into Ron’s drink. You’ve got the bottle in your hand right now!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry said, slipping the bottle into his robes.

Hermione fought the urge to tackle him and force the bottle out of his pocket. “Ron, I’m serious, don’t drink it!”

But Ron had already picked up the glass and drained it in one. “Stop bossing me around, Hermione.”

Hermione was appalled. She bent down low to whisper to Harry, “You should be expelled for that, Harry!”

“Hark who’s talking,” he whispered back. “Confunded anyone lately?”

Hermione took a step back, feeling as though she’d been slapped. She turned away from them and stormed up the table, her anger rising.

How could Harry do such a thing? Confunding McLaggen hadn’t been about making sure Ron got on the team, it had been about defending her friends. Using Felix Felicis for an official game wasn’t only immoral, it was illegal. Hermione plopped down at the table, but now found her appetite gone.

Of course, she shouldn’t be so surprised at Harry’s willingness to disregard the rules. She’d been dealing with him in Potions class for over a month now as he took credit for someone else’s work and gained an inordinate amount of praise in the process.

She pushed herself up from the table. People were already making their way to the Quidditch pitch, but now she wasn’t sure she even wanted to go anymore. What she should do is go tell Professor McGonagall before the match started so that she could put a stop to this.

But she stopped herself, remembering the last time she had gotten between Harry and Quidditch. When she had told McGonagall about the mysterious broomstick Harry had gotten three years ago, Harry and Ron hadn’t spoken to her for weeks. Could she really go through that again?

She squared her shoulders and stepped out into the cool morning air. She would watch the game, and if things went well — as she knew they would since Harry had given Ron liquid luck — she would confront them again. They were her best friends, she had to at least give them a chance to turn themselves in before she did it herself.

She stomped across the grounds towards the pitch, where the sun shone down on the stands. It was a nice day, but she couldn’t enjoy it, not with anger and determination coursing through her veins.

She got to the stands and joined the line winding up the stairs, her stomach twisting and turning as she thought about what she would have to do. The scent of cinnamon and cloves tickled at her nose as she hurried up, barreling into the person ahead of her when the line stopped abruptly.

“Watch it!” the person said.

She looked up to see Blaise Zabini, in cuffed black jeans and a green and silver color-blocked pullover. He looked annoyed at first, but when he saw that it was her, his face changed, surprise in his eyes. “Why do you look like someone ate your homework?”

“Why do you care?” Hermione snapped.

He opened his mouth to retort, his eyes flashing, but someone else spoke up before he could.

“Oh, don’t mind her Blaise,” Pansy Parkinson said from the next stair up. She tried to look bored, but Hermione could see the wicked amusement in her eyes, “She probably just couldn’t see through all of that hair. Maybe if she did something reasonable to it she wouldn’t invade other people’s personal space.”

Hermione didn’t have the energy for this. Rather than respond, she pushed past the group of chortling Slytherins, ignoring Pansy’s sneer and Zabini’s frown. She continued up the stairs, squeezing through the group of third years who were blocking the way on the next landing.

The game went just as Hermione had predicted, punctuated by the aggravating commentary of Zacharias Smith. His mocking tone agitated Hermione further than watching Ron make his fourteenth save, or the moment she realized that Malfoy wasn’t playing, which meant that in addition to having to deal with her cheating friends she was also going to have to sit through days of conspiracy theories from Harry.

Once Harry caught the Snitch and Ginny “accidentally” plowed Smith over, the stands began to empty, students buzzing after such an exciting match. Hermione took a deep breath and hardened her resolve. She had to hold her friends accountable.

…

The next Monday, Hermione sat on one of the desks in the Transfiguration classroom alone, a group of yellow birds twittering around her head. She eyed them critically as they flew around, sure she could do better. Was it just her, or did they look slightly transparent from this angle?

She had chosen to come here during her lunch break rather than sit alone in the Great Hall. Ron was no longer talking to her, having chosen to blame Hermione for Harry’s manipulation of the both of them. His mocking tone in the changing room still grated on her.

“You added Felix Felicis to Ron’s juice this morning, that’s why he saved everything!” he’d said shrilly, his face red. “See! I can save goals without help, Hermione!”

Ignoring the fact that Harry fake-drugging Ron with lucky potion proved he couldn’t save goals on his own, Hermione wasn’t sure what else she could have done. How was she supposed to know Harry wouldn’t actually break the rules given the flippancy with which he had treated them in the past?

Ron not speaking to Hermione didn’t actually seem to be that difficult a feat for him, given that his mouth seemed to be permanently glued to Lavender’s ever since the post-match Gryffindor party. Harry seemed sympathetic to Hermione’s plight, but that hadn’t stopped him from sitting with Ron at meals or walking with him from the common room in the mornings. Hermione didn’t care that Ron and Lavender were together now past the fact that it meant she now had to find a new date to Slughorn’s Christmas party — what really bothered her was the way Ron seemed to pretend she didn’t exist, even though she hadn’t done anything to warrant such behavior.

The door to the classroom pushed open, startling her.

She looked up as Zabini stepped inside, his eyes widening in surprise at the sight of the birds flying around the room and then narrowing when he noticed her.

“What are you doing?” he asked, as one of the birds came to land on her shoulder.

“Practicing,” she said shortly.

He wound his way through the desks, coming to a stop at the one he usually sat at during class. He grabbed the forgotten book lying there, eyeing the birds warily, “Doesn’t seem like you need it.”

Hermione huffed, and pointed at the one circling the chandelier above them, “That one’s wing is faded.”

Zabini rolled his eyes, “Merlin. You try too hard, you know that?”

Hermione’s temper had been quick to rise lately, and it rose now, “Some of us don’t have the luxury of being pure-bloods,” she snapped, “We actually have to work to be recognized.”

Zabini opened his mouth to retort but then he stopped, frowning. An odd look flashed across his face.

He shook his head slightly and turned away, “Whatever, Granger.”

With that, he was gone.

Hermione sighed and slid off of the desk, vanishing the birds with a flick of her wand. Lunch was almost over and she didn’t want to be late for her next class.

She walked through the halls to the Charms corridor on her own, sliding in and out of the swelling crowd, side-stepping a suit of armor that seemed to have the sudden urge to do a jig in the middle of the hall and ducking as Peeves swooped above the chaos, cackling.

She hurried up to the seventh floor and turned, stopping herself just before she ran directly into Cormac McLaggen.

“Oh, sorry,” she said quickly, stumbling around him.

“Oh hey Granger, I wanted a word!” he said. He was smiling at her, his floppy hair falling into his eyes.

“Er, yes?” she asked, glancing in the direction of the Charms classroom and back to him. He looked relaxed as he towered over her.

“You don’t have a date for Old Sluggy’s Christmas party, do you?” Confidence seemed to exude off of Cormac in waves.

“O-oh,” she stammered, “I don’t, actually.” She cringed internally. Why hadn’t she lied? She’d been planning to ask Harry the next time he was away from Ron, but hadn’t yet gotten the chance.

“Excellent,” Cormac said, “We should go together.”

At this point, Hermione felt stuck. “I...I don’t know.”

“Come on,” he said, stepping closer to her, his face falling into a mock-pout. He seemed so big standing there in front of her. There was no telling how he would react if she said no — he’d always seemed like a wildcard to her — and she had no idea if Harry didn’t already have a date for the party.

She bit her lip before conceding. “Sure, let’s do it.”

Before Cormac could say anything else, Hermione turned and hurried to class, feeling mortified.

The school began to buzz about Slughorn’s Christmas Party as it loomed nearer, despite only a few students actually getting invites. Hermione had done her best to keep the fact that she was going with Cormac to herself, but word spread anyway.

“I can’t believe you’re going with McLaggen,” Harry said as they sat in the library the day before the party, looking up from his copy of Advanced Potion-Making.

“Well I figured you would already have a date by now,” Hermione shifted uncomfortably.

It was Harry’s turn to look uncomfortable, “Not yet. I did get some lovely chocolates from Romilda Vane though.”

“I told you,” Hermione said. Just the day before she had caught Romilda and her friends discussing how to slip Harry a love potion so that he would take one of them to the party.

“Yeah, well I’m not going to eat one so there’s no danger anymore,” Harry shrugged, “Ron’s not too chuffed about you going with McLaggen, you know.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, “And here I thought having a girlfriend would make him more prone to minding his own business.”

“He’s still a little sore about Quidditch tryouts I think,” Harry said, “You know how he gets. I think he would’ve rather you went with Malfoy.”

“You’re joking!”

“‘Course I am,” Harry grinned, “I’m just saying, he probably thinks he’s losing a friend to someone he feels insecure about.”

“He’s the one who started it.” It sounded childish but Hermione refused to feel bad, even if she wasn’t all that excited about her own choice of date.

The day of the party was tense, and Hermione wondered if she even wanted to go anymore. Since the news about her going with McLaggen had leaked, Ron seemed to go out of his way to be rude to her.

They were in Transfiguration class, practicing changing the color of their eyebrows. As Hermione focused intensely on her face in the mirror, trying her hardest to make her eyebrows a bright green, she heard a shout across the room.

She looked up to see Ron aghast, a brilliant handlebar mustache sprouting from above his upper lip. The entire class broke out into laughter, but Ron glared at Hermione, somehow singling her out in the midst of their classmates. Hermione rolled her eyes at his hostility before turning back to her work.

“Now, who would like to demonstrate their progress?” Professor McGonagall called about halfway through class.

Before Hermione could volunteer, Ron thrust his hand into the air, jumping up and down in his seat. “Ooh, ooh Professor pick me!”

Heat rose on Hermione’s cheeks as Professor McGonagall rose an unamused eyebrow at Ron and chose Slytherin Daphne Greengrass.

For the rest of the class, whenever McGonagall asked a question, Ron would mock Hermione cruelly. Tears welled up in her eyes as McGonagall finally snapped at him, threatening to take away House points, and when the bell rang, she was the first to leave the classroom.

This wasn’t fair. She knew she had done nothing to warrant Ron’s bullying. Sixth year was hard enough with her classes and the threat of Voldemort without Ron acting so harshly towards her. She was done, she decided as she wiped her tears in the bathroom, Luna Lovegood patting her back serenely. It was okay, she thought. Friends grew apart sometimes.

Harry was waiting outside of the bathroom, her book bag in his hands. “You left your stuff…”

“Oh yes,” she said. How was it that she had gotten so worked up that she’d forgotten her things? She took a deep breath, “Thank you, Harry. Well, I’d better get going…”

She hurried off before Harry could say anything further. She needed to pull herself together before having to sit alone, yet again, at dinner.

She changed into more comfortable clothes and snuggled with Crookshanks for a bit before grabbing a book and slipping out of her dormitory. The halls were almost empty, most of the student body down in the Great Hall.

The noise of the Hall swelled as she got closer, and she took a deep breath at the top of the landing, fortifying herself before descending the staircase to the entrance hall.

Zabini was exiting the Great Hall as she came to the bottom of the stairs. He noticed her and glanced behind himself, into the Hall, before walking directly up to her.

“Hey,” he said, “Everything okay?”

Hermione stared up at him, surprised. She eyed his face, his furrowed brows, warily, “I’m fine.”

“Good,” he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his school robes. “Because Weasley was being a git.”

She felt a surge of indignation, an urge to defend Ron to Zabini, a Slytherin who often kept company with the Malfoys and Parkinsons of the school. But she stopped herself. None of those people were supposed to be her best friend. And Zabini, who was supposed to be like them, was standing in front of her, looking down at her with more concern than she’d gotten from Ron in a long time.

“Thanks,” she said awkwardly. She tilted her head at him, wondering what had made him come up to her.

He nodded once, looking satisfied, before abruptly turning away, raising one hand in a wave, “See you at the party.”

“Yeah,” she said quietly, unsure if her response had reached him as he hurried down the staircase that led to the Slytherin common room.


	2. An Unexpected Correspondence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione attends Professor Slughorn's Christmas party.

“Hermione!”

The door to the dormitory slammed open, and Hermione looked up from her dress robes to see Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown.

“How could you not tell us you were going to Slughorn’s party with Cormac _McLaggen_?” Parvati exclaimed.

“Oh, er,” Hermione eyed them warily. She had generally been friendly with Parvati and Lavender, but they had been two of the few who had laughed at Ron’s mocking in class earlier. They seemed to be remorseful now, or at least had resolved to move on from it.

Lavender strode up to her and pulled the robes from Hermione’s hands, inspecting them. They were blush pink with a faint gold shimmer. “Have you got any accessories for this?”

“Yeah, I — what are you doing?” Hermione asked, noticing Parvati rooting through her own trunk.

“We’re going to help you get ready,” she answered as she straightened up, holding a bright purple heavy-looking box covered with metallic stickers.

“You really don’t have to—”

“Of course we do!” Lavender exclaimed, “We’re your roommates. Plus we didn’t get invites so we have nothing better to do.”

Parvati opened her box, revealing its contents: palettes of eye shadows and tubes of eyeliner and mascara. “I also have hair accessories. Lav, don’t you have a choker that would go with the gold of her robes?” she asked as she sat Hermione down at the foot of her bed.

“On it,” Lavender called, already searching through her own things.

Hermione felt a little surprised by their sudden excitement but allowed herself to relax as they helped her get ready. She rarely hung out with girls — occasionally the three of them would have slumber parties, but they hadn’t done that since fourth year. Other than sharing a room with Ginny when she stayed at the Burrow, her friend interactions had almost exclusively been with Harry and Ron. This was nice, getting to hang out with people without the added pressure of dealing with Ron’s insecurities or Harry’s bleak future.

Parvati and Lavender did an amazing job. Parvati bemoaned not having any makeup for full coverage — not even the wizarding world had found it necessary to create foundations that matched darker skin tones — but she added gold wingtips to Hermione’s eyelids that Lavender declared “inspired.”

Lavender undid the two plaits Hermione had been wearing all day and pulled her thick hair up into a pineapple, using her wand to make some of her curls more defined, a trick she said her aunt had taught her over the summer. She and Parvati carefully placed Parvati’s alternating burgundy and gold butterfly clips in a halo around her hair, the clips flapping their wings leisurely.

Hermione thanked them both profusely, though she wondered to herself whether they should have wasted so much effort on Cormac, who Hermione was still wary of.

He was waiting for her in the common room, dressed in alarmingly bright dress robes of royal blue. His hair was ruffled carefully, and he grinned when he saw her.

“Looking good Granger!” he said, slinging an arm over her shoulder and steering her out into the halls.

Once the portrait of the Fat Lady swung shut behind them, she slid out from under his arm, careful not to mess up her hair. “Er, you look nice,” she offered as they continued down the hall.

Cormac smiled again, his eyes drifting across her body. She crossed her arms. “Thanks,” he said, “I just threw it on after the two-on-two Quidditch match my buddies and I played after dinner.”

“Oh?” Hermione raised her eyebrows at him, thinking of all the time Parvati had spent inspecting her eyelids to make sure they were symmetrical.

“Yeah, it was epic,” he said, “You know I tried out for Keeper but I’m a fairly good Beater as well. We only had one Bludger but…”

Hermione listened to Cormac’s play-by-play as attentively as she could, but found herself zoning out more than a couple of times. By the time they had turned into the corridor holding Slughorn’s office, she realized he was on a completely different story than the one he had started out with.

Thankfully, they were approaching the office now. Cormac still prattled along as they stepped through the door, but Hermione’s attention was caught by the wonderful way Slughorn had decorated the room.

It somehow seemed larger than usual, the hangings draped to look like they were inside a large tent, a towering tree sprung up where the table usually sat for their dinners. There were far more people here than Hermione had expected, and she realized that while not a lot of the student body was invited, Slughorn was taking this moment to bask in the number of connections he had. Music floated through the room as house-elves carried trays of food through the crowd. Hermione forced herself not to turn and leave right then at the sight of them, and looked around instead for Harry.

She figured he ought to be here by now with Luna, but what she thought might be the glint of his glasses turned out to be that of a gold bracelet on Melinda Bobbin’s wrist, and there were quite a few people in here with dark hair.

Her eyes fell on Blaise Zabini. He was standing off to the right with Daphne Greengrass and a short stocky man in a stetson. His dress robes were a deep burgundy with gold thread embroidered along his collar and the ends of his sweeping sleeves. His smooth skin seemed to shine under the lights. His dark eyes met hers and widened for a moment before he nodded at her in greeting.

“Want to get some drinks?” Cormac’s voice was too loud in her ear.

Hermione tore her gaze away from Zabini and nodded, “Sure.”

They wound their way through the crowd towards the bar when Cormac was hailed loudly by a large man with an impressive golden mustache. The man, it turned out, was Cormac’s uncle Tiberius.

“Good to see you my boy!” Tiberius cried boisterously.

“I didn’t realize you were coming,” Cormac said, grinning widely. Hermione could see the familial resemblance — both were quite large with blue eyes, and seemed to carry themselves with the sort of confidence that could only be found in the privileged mediocre.

“Yes, I told your father to keep it all hush hush, thought I would surprise you,” Tiberius said, his eyes falling on Hermione, “But it seems you’re the one with the surprises Cormac!”

“This is Hermione,” Cormac said, sliding his hand around her waist unexpectedly, causing her to stumble into him. This close, she could smell the faint scent of grass and sweat that clung to him. She tried to maintain her composure, leaning away as she smiled politely at Cormac’s uncle.

“Charmed,” Tiberius said, taking Hermione’s hand and kissing it, “I’m glad to see Cormac has been doing well in his extracurricular activities.”

Hermione coughed in surprise at the man’s brazen sleaziness. Cormac moved his hand to pat her back as he grinned at Tiberius, which allowed her to shift away from him. Feeling thoroughly uncomfortable, she resumed her search for Harry, resolving to ditch Cormac at the first sight of her friend.

Thankfully, Tiberius soon bid them farewell as Professor Slughorn called to him, a swell of laughter passing through the room. Cormac and Hermione finally made it to the bar, where Cormac ordered a firewhisky for himself and a butterbeer for her. As she took a sip, she wondered if she should have chosen firewhisky as well — she was of age and seemed to be full of nerves. Perhaps it would have soothed them.

Hermione spotted Harry with Luna across the room, talking to Slughorn, a small man in glasses, and a vampire. She followed Cormac absently, trying to figure out a way to get over to them.

“Well would you look at that?” Cormac said.

Hermione glanced at him, still distracted, “Hmm?”

Cormac pointed up, a sly smile on his face. Hermione was suddenly filled with dread at the sight of the cluster of green leaves floating just above them. She took a step back.

“Ah, come on,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder, “It’s Christmas.”

His hand slipped up her neck, fingers burrowing into her hair. As he leaned in, Hermione could smell the firewhisky on his breath, hot and sharp. Just before his lips touched hers, she seemed to jolt back into herself. She ducked down and out of his arms, feeling his fingers tug at the strands of her hair as she unloosed herself. Before he could say anything, she ducked through two of the Weird Sisters, heart racing.

“Hermione! _Hermione_!”

She was relieved to see Harry approach, pulling Luna after him. “Harry! There you are, thank goodness! Hi, Luna!”

“What’s happened to you?” Harry asked, his eyes trailing up to her hair, which she could feel was coming undone.

“Oh, I’ve just escaped — I mean, I’ve just left Cormac,” she said. She tried to smooth up the back of her hair, but could tell it was a lost cause. At the confused look on Harry’s face, she added, “Under the mistletoe.”

“Serves you right for coming with him,” he told her. She felt a twinge of irritation. How did her coming here with Cormac mean she deserved to be accosted?

“It’s not like I _wanted_ to,” she hissed, “He cornered me. Let’s go this way, we’ll be able to see him coming, he’s so tall.” She lead them to the other side of the room, grabbing a goblet of mead as she went and draining the cup in one. Too late, she realized she had lead them right to Professor Trelawney, who was standing alone.

“Hello,” said Luna politely.

Trelawney greeted Luna back, and as they started their conversation, Harry turned back to Hermione, concern on his face.

“I didn’t ask before. Are you planning to tell Ron that you interfered at Keeper tryouts?”

Hermione glared at him, “Of course not! I’ve got no plans to tell Ron anything about what might, or might not, have happened at Keeper tryouts.”

“Good,” said Harry, “Because he’ll just fall apart again, and we’ll lose the next match—”

Her panicked nerves transformed at his words, a burning anger rising in her. “Quidditch! Is that all boys care about? Cormac hasn’t asked me one single questions about myself, no, I’ve just been treated to ‘A Hundred Great Saves Made by Cormac McLaggen’ nonstop ever since—” she broke off, noticing him coming their way, “Oh no, here he comes!”

She hurried off without another word, ducking around the large Christmas tree. One of the leaves got tangled in her hair and she stopped to unwind it, before turning back to continue her course.

She glanced behind her to make sure Cormac hadn’t seen her, and turned around too late, colliding into Zabini.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, grabbing his arms to keep herself upright. His warm scent washed over her, cinnamon and cloves mingling with the smell of pine from the tree beside them.

Zabini’s hands gripped her elbows a moment and then let go, his eyebrows raised at the sight of her. His gaze drifted up to her hair.

“You look like you’ve just wrestled a troll.”

She flushed, reaching up self-consciously to touch the back of her hair again before stopping herself. “I may as well have,” she breathed, glancing behind her again. Cormac had just made it to Harry, who was shrugging. Cormac frowned at Harry’s response and looked up, eyes tracking the room. Hermione ducked past Zabini and behind the tree, counting on the both of them to hide her.

Zabini watched her with a frown, “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” she hissed, peeking out a bit to see if Cormac was on the move, “I’m hiding from the troll.”

Zabini followed her gaze for a moment, his frown deepening. “You’re not having a great night, are you Granger?”

Hermione was barely listening as she searched the room for another place to hide. There was a small gap between Gwenog Jones and a man almost as large as Hagrid. If she timed it right, she could slip between them and end up on the other side of the room without Cormac being any the wiser.

Zabini was looking at her again, scrutinizing her face. “Do you want to get out of here?”

His suggestion startled her out of her plotting. She gaped up at him. Why would Blaise Zabini want to go anywhere with her? His hand was suddenly gripping her elbow again, eyes hardening as it drifted past the tree. She followed his gaze to see Cormac walking in their direction.

“Yes, let’s go,” she said quickly.

Luckily, this side of the tree was closest to the exit. Zabini pulled her through the clusters of people. He dropped her arm just as Filch appeared in the doorway, pulling Draco Malfoy inside by the ear, looking triumphant. He gestured for Hermione to follow him before ducking around Filch and sliding out of the room.

The hall outside was silent, the sounds of the party contained within the confines of Slughorn’s office. Hermione took a deep breath, feeling lighter.

Zabini continued down the hall and she hurried after him, wondering where they were going. The silence, relieving at first, quickly turned awkward. A thousand questions rose in Hermione’s head, but only one left her mouth.

“What are you doing?”

Zabini looked down at her with a smirk before turning back to face forward, “Walking.”

Hermione felt a surge of irritation, “Obviously,” she said, “But why are you helping me? What about your date?”

He shrugged, “She’ll be fine.”

Hermione frowned, “That’s not very considerate, you know. Does she at least _know_ you’ve left?”

“You’re one to talk, aren’t we here so you could ditch McLaggen?”

“McLaggen is an aggressive pig,” Hermione snapped.

“You’re the one who chose to take him as your date.”

Hermione felt angry at his words. Harry’s insistence that she was somehow getting her comeuppance rose back up in her memory. She stopped walking. “Just because I agreed to go with him to the party doesn’t mean I _asked_ to be manhandled under a floating bush!”

Zabini halted a few steps ahead of her, looking back, his eyes wide in shock, “No — I didn’t mean...I know the way he treated you isn’t your fault. I’m sorry it came off that way.”

Hermione eyed him warily, her frustration simmering at the genuine look of remorse on his face. She started walking again.

“I just assumed you’d go with Potter,” Zabini continued, when it was clear to him that she wouldn’t bite his head off.

“Yeah, well I was originally going to go with Ron, but that didn’t work out.”

“You almost brought Weasley?” she wasn’t looking at him, but she could hear the derision in his voice.

“Only as friends,” she didn’t know why she felt the need to clarify, but she did anyway. They climbed the stairs up toward Gryffindor Tower, “I thought it might be fun, before…”

“Before he started acting like an arse, you mean,” Zabini said.

She shrugged, “Sure.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, and when she looked up at him, she saw that he looked thoughtful.

“I’d always wondered why you hung around the two of them,” he said finally, “Doesn’t seem all that equal of a relationship.”

“I’m sure you would know, seeing as you’re by yourself most of the time,” Hermione retorted, though she kept her voice light to let him know she wasn’t upset by his estimation.

“You mean like you’ve been most of the year?”

That brought her up short. Zabini was watching her closely — she could feel her skin warm the longer he held her under his gaze. But he wasn’t wrong. She had been spending a lot of time on her own recently, ever since Harry had gotten that stupid book.

“I suppose so.”

The Fat Lady was up ahead, pretending to be asleep.

“It’s not so bad,” Zabini said gently, “Sometimes you can only be your true self on your own.”

Hermione slowed down to a halt, narrowing her eyes at him. Is that why he kept to himself? Was who he was with other people not who he truly was?

“You should be able to find people who allow you to be yourself though. That’s what friendship is,” she said. Even when Harry and Ron frustrated her to no end, that was the one thing she knew was always true about them.

Zabini shrugged, “Perhaps you’re right.”

She watched him cautiously, the way his dark eyes drifted along the walls, the torch light reflecting off of his cheekbones. He slid his hands into the pockets of his robes.

“You know you still haven’t explained why you helped me,” she said.

Zabini’s eyes fell back to hers, “Dunno,” he said quietly. It felt almost as if he were talking to himself, but his eyes seemed to burn into her, more intense than any gaze she’d felt. Her heart thudded loudly in her chest. He rocked forward on his toes, his scent wafting over her a moment before he thought better of it, settling back down on his heels. He took a step back, “‘Night, Granger.”

Hermione watched in stunned silence as he turned and disappeared around the corner. She exhaled, confused by the way her stomach flipped as she watched him go.

…

Hermione woke early the next morning to see Harry and Ginny off as they left for break. She and Lavender walked down to the common room together, Hermione yawning as they entered to find Harry, Ron, and Ginny waiting near the portrait hole.

As Lavender careened into Ron’s arms and their mouths fused together, Hermione passed Harry and Ginny their Christmas presents.

“Thanks,” Harry said sleepily, passing her a package of her own, “Listen, I missed you at the end of the party—”

“I left early,” Hermione said, heat creeping up on her cheeks. She knew she couldn’t bring up her late night walk with Zabini. She wasn’t even sure how she felt about it, and she knew for a fact how Harry would react to her spending any amount of time with a Slytherin outside of class.

“I figured,” Harry said, pointedly ignoring the slurping sounds coming from just a few feet over.

Ginny rolled her eyes and sighed at her brother’s antics. “We’ve got to go,” she said loudly, pulling Hermione into a quick hug, “McGonagall said not to be late.”

“I’ve got something to tell you,” Harry said in a low voice as Ron and Lavender broke apart and Ginny made to exit the common room, “After break. It’s important.” He gave her a significant look, letting her know it wasn’t something he could write to her about; that it would be too dangerous.

“Alright,” she said, pulling him into a tight hug, “Have a good Christmas!”

“You too,” Harry grinned.

Ron glanced at her awkwardly, but Hermione turned away, following Lavender back up to their room. She wasn’t going to deal with his attitude just before the holidays.

Parvati was awake by the time she and Lavender got back to their dormitory. “You two up for breakfast?” she asked through a yawn.

“Sure,” Hermione said, surprised at being included. “I left your clips on your table, Parvati, I didn’t know where to put them. Thanks again for letting me borrow them.”

“No problem,” Parvati said with a smile.

“You have to tell us all about the party,” Lavender insisted, “But after I brush my teeth.”

Hermione grimaced and pulled out her clothes for the train ride home, a pair of jeans, a thick navy and red jumper knitted for her by Mrs. Weasley, and black boots. She twisted her hair down in the front, pulling it all back into a low but wild puff.

Soon, the three of them were in the Great Hall, eating their last meal before they would be on the train for hours.

“So what happened?” Lavender asked, scooping eggs onto her plate, “I want all the details.”

“Well, Slughorn invited a lot of his former pupils,” she started slowly. There wasn’t much to say, she had left the party before she had gotten the chance to properly network. Her eyes wandered from her plate across the hall to the Slytherin table.

Zabini was there, sitting off on his own, a small book held open in one hand. As she noticed him, his eyes seemed to drift up from the pages as if called, to meet hers. Hermione blushed and looked back to her food.

“Who cares?” Parvati exclaimed, “What about McLaggen?”

“Oh,” Hermione stammered, her mind elsewhere, on the quiet moment just before Zabini had left her with the Fat Lady, on his thoughtful but burning gaze. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of each other…”

She explained what had happened, and felt satisfaction at the looks of horror and disgust on Lavender and Parvati’s faces.

“Gross,” Parvati said, wrinkling her nose.

“I can’t believe his _uncle_ said that,” Lavender chimed in.

“Yes, well, I ended up leaving early,” Hermione said, “I’m sorry all your hard work had to go to waste.”

“Not at all!” Parvati exclaimed, “It was fun.”

“Plus, you had to have turned heads when you arrived,” Lavender grinned, “You looked wicked.”

Hermione flushed again, and pursed her lips.

She rode on the Hogwarts Express with them, the two of them mostly content to chatter away about the latest issue of _Witch Weekly_ and their last Divination class. It was a reminder to Hermione why she didn’t hang out with them regularly; they didn’t share many of the same interests. Still, it was refreshing to be around regular girls, to talk about normal things even as danger loomed. She knew Lavender and Parvati weren’t unaware — Parvati’s parents had been threatening all term to pull her and her sister out of the school — but they seemed to find comfort in the latest hair color developed by Fancy Follicles the way Hermione would a book. She tried to stay engaged as much as she could, and soon their conversation turned to Ron.

“I don’t know,” Lavender sighed, unwrapping a pumpkin pasty, “He just doesn’t seem to be all that present, you know? I feel like I don’t really know how he feels about me.”

Parvati frowned, “Don’t you ever talk to him?”

Lavender shrugged, “Not really. It’s mostly snogging,” suddenly she turned to Hermione, “What do _you_ think?”

Hermione grimaced. Lavender didn’t want to know what she actually thought — that Ron was with Lavender because he liked to feel wanted, to be seen kissing a girl. Ron rarely did things without the promise of people noticing, despite that also making him nervous at the possibility of the attention turning negative. Instead, she gave her another answer, “I don’t even know why you like Ron, to be honest.”

Lavender looked shocked, “But he’s your friend!”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed. That was precisely why she felt that way. She had been the brunt of his bad behavior enough times to know she would never want to deal with it in any romantic situation. 

“I was always surprised you never had feelings for him,” Lavender said, “Or Harry.”

Hermione shrugged. There had been a brief moment in fourth year when she thought she could maybe have feelings for Ron, but the Yule Ball had woken her up.

As if reading her mind, Parvati said, “I get it. Padma and I went to the Yule Ball with them. No thanks.”

Lavender leaned back with a huff, “Well hopefully when we get back, we’ll figure out how to be on the same page.”

Hermione felt a surge of pity. It seemed Lavender truly liked Ron. “Perhaps,” she said, hoping she sounded optimistic.

…

The Hogwarts Express pulled into King’s Cross Station that evening, and Hermione bade farewell to Parvati and Lavender, whose parents met them on the platform. On her way to the platform barrier, she saw Zabini sitting on a bench alone, frowning at his book. His long legs were crossed in front of him so that other students had to make an arc around him to get by. He brought his free hand to his mouth, wetting the tips of his fingers before turning the page.

Hermione felt a sudden urge to go to him, to wish him a Happy Christmas, but in that moment a group of fifth year Ravenclaws pushed their way past her, startling her back to reality. She took a deep breath and followed them through the barrier, away from the boy who seemed to keep creeping into her mind, arriving back in the Muggle world between platforms 9 and 10.

She spotted her father down the way a bit, in a flat cap and bomber jacket, waving at her. She smiled at him, feeling a little awkward as she approached.

“Hi Dad,” she said as he pulled her into a hug.

“It’s been a long time, love,” he said, “School alright?”

Hermione nodded vaguely, grabbing Crookshanks’ carrier out of the cart as her father pulled out her luggage. “It’s been okay.”

She followed her father out of the station towards the car, unsure of what to say. She hadn’t seen her parents since the first week of the summer, when she had stopped at home briefly before going off to the Burrow for the rest of break. And before that...she couldn’t remember. She did know that this was her first Christmas home since her first year at Hogwarts, five years ago.

“Your mum’s finishing up at the office,” he told her as they made it to the car. He hoisted her luggage into the trunk as she slid into the passenger’s seat. “Should be home once we get there.”

They drove through London with few words, the silence punctuated by the sports talk show her father loved to listen to. Whenever the space between their conversation got too long, Hermione tried to think of something to ask — about the car, her dad’s Aunt Trina over in Bristol, on their work. Each answer was more mundane than the previous, and Hermione began to feel guilty. She had been in boarding school all this time, but should she feel quite this separate from her family?

Her mum was home as her father said, and looked happy to see her, if not a little tired from a long day’s work.

“The Carter twins were in again,” she sighed as she sat at the kitchen table, “I keep telling their mum she doesn’t have to bring them in for every little fall.”

“Didn’t Ashley cut her mouth falling off a swing?” her dad asked.

“Yes, but it was nothing a little ice couldn’t fix,” her mum said, sounding exasperated.

Hermione excused herself quietly from the room and pulled her things upstairs. She looked around her room, at how ordinary it was, the light pink bedspread she’d picked out when she was ten, and the small desk pushed into the corner, a lamp on the corner. She went to her window and pulled back the curtains, looking out on the empty street. Everything was still and peaceful — it felt wrong.

Hermione turned away from the window and rooted through her bag for her wand. She could hear her mother in her parents’ bedroom, presumably changing out of her work clothes. The football match blared from the sitting room, and Hermione heard her father shouting at the television.

She slipped outside, looking up at her house, the white paneling and square windows. The gray sky above her felt dark and foreboding, and a light mist crept around the corners. Hermione took a deep breath and raised her wand, reciting the protection spells she had taught herself in her spare time at school. She said them out loud, not trusting her skill in nonverbal spells enough for something so important.

Rain began to fall as she finished, the first few drops hitting her forehead and hands as the last spell left her mouth, casting a brief golden glow around the house. She hurried back inside, hoping it would be enough.

…

Christmas break at the Grangers tended to be a quiet affair. Hermione’s parents were in and out of the office in the days leading up to the actual holiday, taking appointments until the very last minute. Hermione didn’t mind it, she had been used to the busy schedules of her parents, and actually enjoyed the time on her own when she wasn’t feeling the guilt of being gone for so long, of not being able to tell them everything about her world.

She wasn’t sure if it helped or made her feel worse that she wasn’t getting as much information from the wizarding world as she was used to. It was clear the _Daily Prophet_ was suppressing information, perhaps to increase morale, but Hermione wanted to be informed not coddled. She thought about Harry and Ron at the Burrow. While it wasn’t the headquarters for the Order, she knew that enough members were in and out of the house that there was so much they might be learning just by virtue of being there.

Hermione was starting to feel lonely. She had gotten used to the chaotic nature of the Burrow, the cramped but cheerful air about the house. She missed waking up to the smell of Mrs. Weasley’s cooking, Fred and George’s jokes, even attempting to play Quidditch in the apple orchard. She fought the urge to write Harry and beg him to tell her whatever information he had for her, which she was sure he’d already recited to Ron in the safety of his bedroom, just below the family ghoul. As she stared up at her ceiling, the flower decal peeling after holding up for nearly a decade, she wondered why she hadn’t come up with some kind of code for them to communicate by.

The tapping on her window startled her out of her funk, excitement rising at the thought of seeing Hedwig, of hearing some news from the world she now called home.

She pushed herself off of her bed and pulled back her curtains. It wasn’t Hedwig on her sill. It wasn’t even Pigwidgeon, though she hadn’t expected him.

Instead, a large Great Horned Owl sat watching her almost haughtily, it’s plumage expertly groomed. A scroll was attached to it’s leg, tied with a black ribbon. Confused, she pushed her window open, allowing it to enter and perch on the end of her desk.

The owl stood almost motionless as it allowed her to remove the scroll. She slid the ribbon off and unfurled it, revealing an unfamiliar scrawl in shining green ink. Hermione scanned the letter quickly, her stomach flipping at the signature at the bottom.

_Blaise Zabini._

She flipped the parchment over, as if expecting to find more, some kind of assurance that this was all a joke, or that she was dreaming. She looked back up at the owl, now watching her with an air of impatience. It looked how she would imagine an owl owned by Zabini would look, stiff and proud.

She turned away from it then and sat on the edge of her bed, smoothing out the letter and reading it from the top, her heart racing.

_Granger,_

_This is probably as strange as it is unexpected. I was reading a book that made me think of you and your maddening self-righteousness, and then suddenly I was pulling out a parchment and quill._

_I don’t know that I’ve ever written to anyone outside of school — there’s never been a point — but my mother is off with her new boyfriend and there isn’t much to do at home. Maybe I’m just bored. Anyway, thinking about you made me think about what you said the night of Slughorn’s party, about friends and being yourself without judgment. _

_I’m not even sure if my owl will find you, to be honest — I don’t know how the post works when the recipient is in a Muggle home. If this letter does find you, then you’ll probably be unsurprised to learn that I’m not all that convinced by your argument. I’ve seen the way people change around others, the way they change themselves to live up to their expectations rather than just being who they are. I know I’ve been a victim of this too. It almost feels like it’s happened more since I noticed it. Except with you. I’m not sure what it means that though we’ve maybe only had one genuine conversation, I don’t feel the need to pretend with you. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt that before, not even with my own mother._

_Anyway, I hope you’re doing well in the Muggle world. I know you probably won’t respond, but I do hope there’s at least some relief to being away from wizards at the moment, given everything that’s been happening._

_-Blaise Zabini_

Hermione read the letter three times over, each time her disbelief growing stronger. Even as her incredulity grew, she found herself having visceral reactions to his words, the responses already forming in her mind. Where did he get off, calling her self-righteous? Was this truly the first time he had written to anyone, except most likely to his mother? She was surprised by the introspection in his words, even as he disagreed with her.

_I don’t feel the need to pretend with you._

Her eyes lingered over those nine words, butterflies rising from her stomach to her chest.

She found herself noticing the way Zabini’s t’s tilted slightly to the right, the way his handwriting was neat and reserved, like he himself. She still couldn’t believe this was happening, that she was holding an actual letter written by a Slytherin boy she had never really given a thought to until recently. As she stared at the parchment, she realized she didn’t know what to do.

She looked up at the owl, still sitting pompously on her desk. Should she respond? The owl hadn’t left right away, which made her wonder if Zabini had instructed him to wait for her response. She remembered the summer before last, when Harry had sent Hedwig to peck adequate responses out of she and Ron after they had been sworn to secrecy by Professor Dumbledore.

But it said in the letter that Zabini wasn’t even sure his message would reach her, much less that she would read and respond to it. She supposed she could thank the owl and send him on his way without anything to take back with him. She stared at him, pondering. The owl stared back.

Her heart thudded as she made her decision, heat crawling up her skin. It would be rude not to respond, she told herself.

Hermione went over to her desk, kneeling down to pull open the bottom drawer of her desk, where she kept Crookshanks’ food and toys. She pulled out the spare package of owl nuts she kept there for Hedwig, Pig, and occasionally Viktor’s owl. She quickly tipped a few of the nuts into a shallow bowl and placed it onto the desk next to the owl. He blinked at her silently, unimpressed.

She grabbed a few sheets of loose leaf paper and a pen from another drawer — she didn’t feel like searching for her inkwell and quill.

She read Zabini’s letter again, trying to figure out how to start.

_Zabini,_

_I won’t pretend I’m not surprised to receive your letter. I wasn’t sure anything I’d said that night would actually stick, and had decided to write it off as a random but not unpleasant interaction. I don’t know how much I like being called ‘self-righteous,’ much less by someone who seems set on walking around with a superior air about him._

_With that being said, you’re not wrong about people changing themselves when they’re with friends, but I don’t think that’s always a bad thing. There’s a difference between conforming and being considerate. If you expect not to change around your friends, to make them feel welcome and not judged, then you aren’t a good friend. I suppose you do have to be sure to stay true to yourself, but anyone forcing you to change who you are isn’t your friend. I’m glad you don’t feel the need to pretend with me._

_The Muggle world is okay. In terms of not having much to do, I’m afraid we’re in the same boat. My parents have been quite busy in the time leading up to Christmas, but they often spend most of their time at work. It’s lonelier than I remembered. I haven’t truly spent time here in years, and it’s not like I can just knock on Rachel Shellstrop’s door after not having spoken to her for six years. But I know I need to do a better job of being here for my parents, especially given the way things are going in the wizarding world. _

_I thought it would be a relief, but the magical world has truly become my home at this point. Coming back to the non-magical one can be a bit of a culture shock after being away for so long. I always feel like I’m on the wrong foot here. Everything is familiar, but I no longer belong, and I’d rather be where I’m most understood._

_I hope you have a good Christmas._

_-Hermione Granger_

She read her response a few times over to make sure it sounded okay. More than checking that there was no information someone might read into if they intercepted it, Hermione was more worried about not sounding like a total dunderhead. She thought she’d done okay — it was only a little clunky in the way that friendly letters to a person she’d never expected to be friends with was.

She folded up the letter and went to attach it to Zabini’s owl. He hadn’t moved from his spot the entire time he’d been there, not even attempting to eat the snack Hermione had set out for him. Once she’d fastened the letter to his leg, he hopped over to the window sill, flying out without hesitation. Hermione watched his flight, nerves fluttering in the pit of her stomach.


	3. A Bond in Bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Blaise grow closer.

Before she knew it, Hermione was in regular correspondence with Blaise Zabini. What started off as a nerve-wracking task became the thing she most looked forward to during her break. Suddenly, she didn’t feel so lonely anymore, not so cut off from the world.

Having grown up solely in the wizarding world, Blaise started off with a lot of questions. What did her parents do? Why would anyone pay good money for someone to stick foreign objects in their mouth? What did Hermione want to be before she found out she was a witch?

Hermione tried to be thorough in answering his questions, and asked more than a few of her own. Blaise started off interested in Muggle Christmas, but when Hermione explained it to him, he sounded slightly disappointed.

_I’m just going to be upfront and say that that sounds boring. Sorry._

_My mum and I have never really celebrated Christmas. She says she doesn’t need an excuse to buy me things, but I think it’s also because my birthday is only four days before._

Hermione learned that Blaise and his mother hadn’t always been rich. Madam Zabini’s parents had cut her off after she got pregnant at the age of eighteen, and so for the first four years of his life, Blaise’s mother had worked in a shop in Diagon Alley struggling to make ends meet. Some wealthy wizard saw her there one day and was so enraptured by her beauty that he offered to take her and her young son in.

From the tone of the letter, Hermione could tell Blaise hadn’t liked Mr. Fawley, a pure-blood who seemed to have dealings with all kinds of people, some not so legal. At least, when he died, five years after discovering his mother in the shop, he’d had the foresight to look after them, willing his Gringotts vault to her.

_I don’t really remember a time when we didn’t have all this,_ Blaise had written, _but my mum often reminds me that it can be taken away. She spoils me, but she also has a very clear vision for my life. I think she worries about our position in part because of our race. She’s always warning me to keep quiet and pay attention to those I surround myself with because our class and pure-blood status only protects us so much. _

_She runs in a lot of circles that believe pure-bloods are superior, and I guess I accepted that for a long time. But I don’t understand why proving your worth means you have to hurt and kill others. I don’t think she would ever go that far, but I know at least one of my step-fathers supported the Dark Lord pretty heavily back in the day. I don’t know what she would do if I flat out refused the ideology that has largely kept us safe and comfortable._

_It makes me feel like a fraud, acting like I believe in these things because it’s all I’ve known. I don’t know if I can be myself without putting myself and her in danger._

Hermione felt for Blaise and his precarious position, and hoped he was being careful in sending these letters out. But he was nothing if not prudent, and the way he opened himself up made her feel comfortable to do the same. She told him how it felt being Muggle-born, especially with Voldemort back in the open.

_I’d lived in this regular, unremarkable world for the first eleven years of my life,_ she wrote._ Strange things would happen to me — like the time I accidentally drowned my mum’s office ficus after worrying overnight that I hadn’t watered it like she asked me to — but everything else was ordinary. And then I get this letter telling me I belong to this fantastical place where amazing things happen. I was so excited to leave my ordinary life for an extraordinary one._

_But then Malfoy called me ‘Mudblood’ second year. I didn’t even know what it meant at the time, but I got the tone, understood from the way everyone else reacted that it was bad. I’d come to this wonderful world, only to find the same prejudices as the one I was from, ones that put me in immediate danger. It’s terrifying, but I know I can’t just step aside and let it continue._

She was starting to feel bad for Blaise’s owl Adonis, who would arrive at her window in the morning and then leave again in the afternoon once Hermione finished her letter. She didn’t know where Blaise lived in the country, and worried that the journey would start to take a toll on the owl, so she’d taken to leaving out food and water for him. He would occasionally take a few sips of water, but he refused to touch the owl nuts. At the end of one of her letters, Hermione told Blaise what was happening, and asked what the owl would eat.

The next letter arrived with a package, a small note attached that read _Don’t laugh._ The package contained Avion Dawdle’s Premium Owl Mix. Hermione poured some in a bowl as she read Blaise’s letter, and put in her response that she had, in fact, laughed.

Blaise had started off telling Hermione that he felt like he didn’t have to pretend with her, and Hermione felt the same of him. In one letter, she found herself writing about something she’d thought of often, but which she hadn’t voiced even to Harry or Ron.

_I’ve never liked when people called me ‘The Brightest Witch of Her Age.’ I do work quite hard, and strive to do my best in everything I do, but the title always feels uncomfortable. I don’t do the work for recognition — or at least not in the way others might, for awards or praise. I do it because I’m genuinely interested and want others to feel proud of the work I do._

_When people call me that, I wonder if they see me as a real person or just as a human encyclopedia — even sometimes with Harry and Ron, who I know care about my well-being but sometimes fall into the comfort that ‘Hermione will do it or fix it” without thinking about how to do it themselves._

It felt like a release to get the thoughts out, and even more of a relief to have Blaise validate those feelings. In his response, he flat out told her that anyone who only wanted her around for her knowledge didn’t deserve her. Hermione had blushed when reading that, glancing furtively up at Adonis, who blinked at her, looking deeply uninterested.

…

The start of the new term came quickly, and soon Hermione found herself back on the Hogwarts Express in a compartment with Luna Lovegood, listening to her gush about her vacation with her father, where they’d spent the entire time drinking Gurdyroot juice and harvesting blue radishes from their garden.

“They turn orange in the summer, but when they’re blue they’re perfect for drawing out toxins and bad auras,” she said dreamily, “We used them to decorate the house for the New Year.”

Hermione felt cheerful and a little nervous about returning to Hogwarts. She was glad to get back into her routine, to studying for exams and learning more about the fight against Voldemort. But another thought, large and nebulous, loomed in the back of her mind. She tried not to give it space to solidify, but still the sign off of Blaise’s last letter echoed in her mind.

_See you at school_.

She hadn’t seen him on the train platform, and felt glued to her seat across from Luna. The thought of going to look for him on the train both terrified and excited her, but she had to remind herself why it was a bad idea. He could be in a compartment full of Slytherins, or at the very least was somewhere others might see. She didn’t want other people whispering about their relationship when she wasn’t even sure they _had_ one to begin with. So she stayed put, fighting to keep still.

Luna noticed her fidgeting and offered her a swig of doowindle water, which she said would help “calm the mind and limbs.” Hermione did her best to decline politely, pursing her lips and looking out of the window.

Finally, they made it to Hogwarts, and after a quick dinner on her own — Harry hadn’t arrived at the school by Floo Powder yet — Hermione went up to Gryffindor Tower to prepare for the next day of classes.

After giving a hungover Fat Lady the password, she entered the common room.

“Granger!” a high voice called to her from across the room.

A tiny second year, Liam Redding, hurried over to her, a note in his hand.

“I was told to give you this,” he said.

Hermione’s heart was pounding in her ears, “Thanks.”

She hurried up to her room, grateful that neither Parvati nor Lavender were inside, and ripped open the note. It was written in now-familiar handwriting.

_Meet me near the Quidditch pitch?_

Excitement and nerves shot through her. She stopped and took a deep breath. This was fine. She could talk to Blaise — she had been for weeks. This was nothing.

There was more than enough time before curfew, so Hermione put on her boots and pulled her winter cloak on over her jumper. Her hair was already tied down into two braids, so she jammed her hat over her head and wrapped the bottom half of her face in a thick purple scarf that had been one of her parents’ Christmas gifts to her.

Snow was falling lightly as she stepped out of the entrance hall and onto the grounds, the lake looked like it was made of gray slush. Wind tried to worm its way through the fabric of her clothes. Hermione shivered and drew her cloak tightly around her before trudging through the snow.

Her stomach flipped when she saw the dark figure up ahead, near the Quidditch stands. As she got closer she saw Blaise’s lanky figure, a scarf tied loosely around his neck, green hat covering his head and ears. He was watching her approach, hands deep in the pockets of his black cloak, teeth playing with his bottom lip. Was he nervous?

“It’s freezing,” Hermione complained as she approached, “Why couldn’t we meet indoors?”

Blaise shrugged, looking up at the gray clouds, “I like the snow.”

Hermione watched his face for a moment, the peace that seemed to come over him, and smiled. A warm feeling pooled in the pit of her stomach.

He looked down at her then, “How are you?”

Hermione wrapped her arms around herself, “I’m okay. Ready to get back into classes.”

Blaise nodded. They stood there silently for a moment, and he shifted his weight a bit, so that he was closer to her. His scent, cinnamon and cloves, carried over to her on the wind.

Hermione wracked her brain for something else to say. “How, er, how was your break?”

She cringed internally as she finished the question, realizing that she already knew the answer, having corresponded with Blaise the entire time. She suddenly wondered, in horror, whether they would ever be able to interact in person — was it possible to only have great interactions through paper? She felt like she knew this boy, his innermost thoughts, and he hers. Why was this so anxiety-inducing?

Blaise coughed lightly, raising a gloved hand to scratch his nose. “It was fine.”

As he dropped his hand, Hermione noticed something glitter from his wrist.

“Your watch!” she exclaimed, grabbing his arm without thinking. She hadn’t seen him with it before break, and it looked brand new.

Blaise was startled, but he held his wrist closer so that she could see it, a gold band with a black face, the hands golden snakes with emerald eyes.

“My mum bought it for my birthday,” he said, “since I came of age.”

Hermione had inadvertently pulled him closer to her, his warm body now blocking the wind. Her cheeks warmed as she dropped his hand, “It’s nice.”

“Thanks,” he said, glancing down at it before putting his hand back in his pocket, “Is there anything like that for Muggles?”

Hermione shook her head, “Well we — Muggles, I mean — don’t come of age until eighteen. And there’s no specific gift.”

“You’re a witch though,” he said, “Didn’t you get a watch for your birthday?”

“My parents are Muggles.”

“Yes, but they have to learn to acclimate to this culture right? Since their daughter is a part of it.”

“I suppose that would be true,” she allowed, “If I’d told them.”

Blaise tilted his head at her, his eyes curious, “Why haven’t you?”

She realized she liked talking to him face-to-face more than writing letters. While the letters had helped her get past her own self-consciousness, she’d only had his words to go by. In person, she could watch his expressions, his mannerisms.

“I don’t know,” she said, “My parents have always been okay with me being a witch, but I guess I sometimes don’t know how to _be_ around them. I’m not around a lot, so I guess I try not to do things that scream at them that I have another part of myself they know very little about.”

Blaise frowned, “Wouldn’t telling them bring you closer?”

Hermione shook her head, “I don’t _want_ them closer. I’m a Muggle-born who is best friends with the Boy Who Lived. It would only put them in danger.”

Blaise fell silent then. At first Hermione thought he might feel put out by her response, but then she realized he was lost in thought.

“What do you tell them, then?”

She shrugged, “My grades, mostly. They can understand those, even if the system is different from the Muggle one. And about my friends,” she had told them quite a lot about Harry and Ron throughout the years.

Blaise’s eyes met hers then, but he looked nervous again, rubbing his nose before asking, “Have you told them about me?”

Hermione opened her mouth, but no words came out. She shook her head, “Are we even friends?”

He looked away, suddenly bashful. “I mean...I’d like to be.”

Her heart was thudding in her chest. “Okay,” she tried to sound casual. “We’re friends then.”

“Alright then,” he said, sounding relieved.

It was dark now, so that Hermione could really only see Blaise’s silhouette, feel the breadth of his body in front of hers.

“We should probably get back,” she said. Harry should have arrived by now.

She could see Blaise’s shadow nod, and the two turned back towards the lights of the castle, trudging through the snow. A couple of times, Hermione’s shoulder would bump into him, or his elbow was graze her, and she would hold her breath until they slipped back apart in the darkness. Silence spread between them, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. Hermione wondered what Blaise was thinking.

They finally got to the front doors. Hermione took a deep breath to recenter herself.

Just as Blaise’s hand touched the handle, the doors pushed open, startling them both. Professor Dumbledore stood in the doorway, a fur-lined navy cloak draped over robes of silver and maroon. His blue eyes widened in surprise from behind his half-moon glasses.

“Ah, Miss Granger! And Mr. Zabini,” he said charmingly, “What a lovely surprise.”

“H-hi Professor,” Hermione stammered, “You’re out late.”

“On the contrary, the night is quite young,” Dumbledore looked between the two of them, “I’m afraid I have some business with Hagrid that needs attending. I do hope the two of you are ready for the excitement of a new term?”

“Of course, sir,” Blaise said politely, looking just as stunned as Hermione felt.

“Wonderful,” Dumbledore said, “Oh, I’ve almost forgotten. Miss Granger, if you could present this note to your friend Mr. Potter, I would be eternally in your debt.”

He passed Hermione a small piece of folded parchment. Recognition flashed through Hermione’s mind. This must be about Harry’s next lesson. “I’ll do that right away, sir.”

“Thank you,” Dumbledore smiled at the two of them, “Well, don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you have far more illuminating tasks to get up to than babbling away with an old man.” He swept past them and off across the grounds, towards Hagrid’s snow-capped hut. 

Hermione’s eyes felt like they would pop out of her head. As she glanced up at Blaise’s shocked expression, she felt a strong urge to laugh.

They stepped into the entrance hall, which was deserted but for the Grey Lady, moping up near the chandelier. Blaise turned towards her, dipping his head slightly to meet her gaze.

“Well, er, I’ll see you in class?” Hermione said, suddenly nervous again.

“Yeah,” he nudged her lightly with his elbow, “‘Night, Hermione.”

And with that he turned away, taking the staircase down to the Slytherin common room. As she hurried up the stairs towards Gryffindor Tower, Hermione smiled to herself.

…

Hermione found Harry, Ron, and Ginny stuck outside of the Gryffindor common room, arguing with an irritable Fat Lady.

“Harry! Ginny!” she called, hurrying over.

“Hey Hermione,” Ginny said as she brushed a bit of ash off of Harry’s shoulder, “Where have you been?”

“Oh, er, I’ve just been down to visit Hagrid and Buck — I mean Witherwings,” she lied quickly, internally thanking Dumbledore for giving her the idea. “Did you have a good Christmas?”

“Yeah,” answered Ron, as if their last interaction hadn’t involved him humiliating her in front of their entire class, “it was pretty eventful—”

“I’ve got something for you, Harry,” she said, pretending she hadn’t heard Ron, “Oh, wait, the password. _Abstinence_.”

“Precisely,” the Fat Lady said, swinging open. The four of them stepped into the crowded common room where students were greeting friends and taking advantage of the last few hours of down time before the homework started to pile up again.

Hermione pulled out the scroll Dumbledore had passed her at the castle doors and passed it to Harry.

“Won-Won!” came a high squeal, cutting Harry off as he opened his mouth to thank her. Lavender came hurtling into Ron out of nowhere, throwing her arms around his neck and nearly knocking him over. An annoyed look crossed over Harry’s face and Hermione grimaced, remembering Lavender’s worries about her relationship with Ron on the train.

“There’s a table over here,” she said quickly, trying to divert attention from the palpable desperation clinging to the interlocked couple, “Coming Ginny?”

“No, thanks, I said I’d meet Dean,” Ginny said, sounding resigned. Hermione eyed Harry as Ginny walked away, noting the faint optimism in his pink cheeks.

“What?” he asked when he caught her watching.

“Nothing,” Hermione said airily. She’d decided she wouldn’t probe him about Ginny unless he decided to talk to her about it, but his feelings really were obvious to anyone with eyes.

“So how was your Christmas?” he asked, very obviously trying to divert attention from himself.

“Oh, fine,” she said, shrugging nonchalantly as though the question hadn’t brought a certain Slytherin to the forefront of her mind, “Nothing special. How was it at Won-Won’s?”

Harry looked as if he wanted to say something about his friends’ standing feud but she glared at him before he could. He sighed, rolling his eyes before resigning to keep his thoughts to himself.

“Before that,” he said, “I still haven’t told you what happened before break.”

He explained to her that he too had left Slughorn’s Christmas party earlier, soon after she had escaped with Blaise, in fact. Instead of heading to the Gryffindor common room to call it a night, he had followed Snape and Malfoy under the Invisibility Cloak.

“Malfoy was talking about some job he had to do for ‘his master’ and Snape was offering to help him. Said he’d made an ‘Unbreakable Vow.’”

Hermione frowned at the smug eagerness on Harry’s face. “Don’t you think—?”

“—he was pretending to offer help so that he could trick Malfoy into telling him what he’s doing?” Harry interrupted, clearly having thought through this line of argument.

She blinked, “Well, yes.”

“Ron’s dad and Lupin think so,” he said grudgingly, “But this definitely proves Malfoy’s planning something, you can’t deny that.”

“No, I can’t,” she said slowly. She hated to agree with him when it felt like doing so would just push him further into his obsession.

Still, she let him carry on for a bit with his Malfoy-is-a-Death-Eater conspiracy, inwardly hoping that Harry would find other things to capture his attention. He mentioned that he was planning to tell Dumbledore what he had overheard, and she hoped the headmaster would be able to put a stop to his spiraling.

The next morning brought something else Hermione thought might work as a distraction for Harry: sixth years were to start Apparition lessons. She signed up, excited to finally learn a new magical skill. All day, everyone chattered on about it.

“It’ll be like we’re official adults!” Parvati said excitedly at lunch while Lavender moped quietly, playing with her food and casting furtive glances over at Ron and Harry further down the table. Hermione wondered if something had happened between now and their wrestling match the night before.

“At least you two are of age already,” Lavender sighed, turning back to her chips, “I won’t be able to take the test until summer.”

Hermione had long decided to stay out of her and Ron’s business, so she just gave a conciliatory grunt and went back to skimming the _Daily Prophet_, which was reporting a Dementor attack and two disappearances since the start of the new year.

After Charms she went to the library, wondering if there was a book she could check out on the theory of Apparition, just so she could be prepared for the first day. She made her way over to the section on Magical Transportation.

The Apparition books were first, and Hermione scanned the titles slowly. There were books about famous Apparating records, scary stories of Apparitions gone horribly wrong (with moving illustrations), even a guide to Side-Along Apparition. She frowned at the empty space on the shelf between _Apparating with Aplomb_ by Gilderoy Lockhart and _Arctic to Tropic: How Temperature May Affect Your Apparition_ by Cardaroc Jumper.

“You’re predictable, you know that?” a familiar voice said behind her.

Hermione’s stomach fluttered as she whipped around to see Blaise leaning back against the shelves dedicated to Floo traveling. He held a small book in his hands, a smirk on his face.

“Hi,” Hermione said. She nodded at the book in his hands, “Studying for Apparition lessons too?”

“Nope,” Blaise said. His fingers flexed around it and Hermione suddenly remembered his firm grip on her elbow at the Christmas Party, “Some of us read for fun, you know.”

Hermione ignored his dig, knowing he was just trying to get a rise out of her. “What are you reading?”

Suddenly, Blaise looked guarded, self-conscious. He shifted the book behind his back, “Nothing.”

“Oh, come on, let me see,” she said, reaching forward to get a look at the title.

His hand flew up, over his head and out of her reach.

“Honestly,” she huffed. She pushed up on her toes, trying to close the distance.

Blaise chuckled as he straightened his arm, holding the book higher. His breath tickled her ear. Hermione jumped, her fingers bumping against the band of his watch. When she landed she lost her footing, tripping forward.

Blaise’s free hand slid to her lower back, to keep her steady as he stumbled, the bookshelf wobbling behind him. Hermione caught herself on the shelf with one hand, her other splayed against his chest as she tried to maintain her balance.

The smell of cinnamon and cloves filled her nose. She looked up at him, her breath caught in her throat. His eyes blazed and the grip on her back seemed to tighten, sending a jolt up her spine. Hermione’s gaze fell on Blaise’s lips, slightly parted in surprise, and she forgot about the book.

Blaise’s eyes widened and then he looked away suddenly, dropping his hand. Hermione backed up, clearing her throat. Her heart was pounding and she felt as if she were under a very persistent space heater.

“You don’t have to show me,” she said quietly, embarrassed.

“No, it’s fine,” Blaise said. He held the book out to her.

Hermione took it, careful not to let their fingers touch. The cover was an eggplant purple, a curvy Black woman in a glittering dress shaking her hips on the cover. The title was written in curly green writing, _A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Success, the Autobiography of Celestina Warbeck._

She looked back up at him. He was rubbing the back of his head, looking abashed. “I like autobiographies. She’s my mum’s favorite singer.”

Hermione smiled at this new bit of information. “What other ones have you read?” she asked, partly because she was curious and partly to show him there was no reason to be embarrassed.

“I’ve read loads,” he said, looking encouraged. “There was this one about the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation before Barty Crouch. He was the one who helped establish an exchange system for different kinds of wizarding money, can you believe we didn’t have it before?”

Hermione had never seen Blaise so passionate about anything. His face seemed to genuinely open up, his eyes alight.

“Seraphina Picquery was the one I read before this one,” he continued. He glanced at his shoes a moment, biting his lip. “The one I read at the beginning of break was about Dorinda Stallworth. She was—”

“The first female Supreme Mugwump,” Hermione said. Her cheeks were flaming now, as she remembered him mentioning how the book had reminded him of her. She plunged forward in an attempt to skip over the strange tension building between them. “I haven’t read many autobiographies. Well, except for Lockhart’s, but that was for school.”

Blaise’s knowing smirk was back. He reached out to take the book back, his fingers brushing her hand. Hermione held her breath. “You can borrow some of mine if you’d like,” he said, “When you’re not too busy studying.”

With a parting nod, he turned down the aisle. Hermione watched him leave, her hand tingling where their skin had touched.

…

A few days later, Hermione stood in an empty courtyard with Harry, snow glittering in her thick hair.

“And so Dumbledore said I have to figure out a way to get Slughorn’s memory, the real one,” Harry looked a little nervous, his looming fate a shadow over him.

Hermione’s mind was racing as she thought through all he had told her. “He must be determined to hide what really happened if Dumbledore couldn’t get it out of him,” she said, keeping her voice low in case anyone happened to walk by. “Horcruxes..._Horcruxes_...I’ve never even heard of them…” How was that possible?

“You haven’t?” Harry sounded disappointed. Hermione felt a twinge of irritation — he always relied on her to know everything.

“They must be really advanced Dark Magic, or why would Voldemort have wanted to know about them? I think it’s going to be difficult to get the information, Harry, you’ll have to be very careful about how you approach Slughorn, think out a strategy…” despite herself, she was already trying to think of ways to convince Slughorn to give up the memory. Perhaps a potion or a—

“Ron reckons I should just hang back after Potions.”

Hermione’s irritation turned to full blown anger, “Oh, well if _Won-Won_ thinks that, you’d better do it,” she snapped, “After all, when has _Won-Won’s_ judgment ever been faulty?”

“Hermione, can’t you—?”

“_No!”_ she said before stalking off, leaving him in the ankle-deep snow.

She was fuming all through Arithmancy. Harry — and Ron — had relied on her for so much: homework, research that was outside of the purview of schoolwork, _saving their lives_, only to turn around and not take her advice seriously. It wasn’t that she thought she was always right, but for Harry to disregard her opinion for someone who was only dating a girl so he could be seen doing it, who couldn’t even play Quidditch without someone tricking him into thinking he was actually good, stung. When had her best friends become so infuriating?

She felt a strong need to vent, to throw her feelings at someone just for the sake of it. But there was no one. Harry and Ron were her only close friends; Lavender wouldn’t hear a word against her boyfriend and Parvati wouldn’t care. Maybe Ginny, but she had enough going on with her rocky relationship with Dean.

Her mind turned to Blaise as class ended. It had been so easy to talk to him over break, but they were in the same place now. She couldn’t just borrow Hedwig, a pretty recognizable owl, and send her down to the Slytherin common room. Maybe she could find him? But wouldn’t that be weird, not mention stalker-like? Hermione made her way to Gryffindor Tower to drop her things. She sighed internally as she helped a small first year girl pick up the large stack of books that had spilled from her hands onto the ground on the seventh floor. She should just let it go.

Rather than dwell on it, she decided she should write a letter to her parents. It was only a few days into the new term, but she figured she should try to make more of an effort to reach out than she had in the past. Something about the tense climate in the wizarding world made her want to try harder to maintain her Muggle connections, even if she could barely stand to live in that world anymore.

She made her way up to the common room after dinner, ready to spend her time by the fireplace writing to her parents. She walked up a staircase to the fourth floor, pleased that it was already moving to connect to a landing that would take her down a more direct route to Gryffindor Tower. The feeling quickly dissipated when she spotted a group of Gryffindor seventh years, recognizing Cormac McLaggen among them.

His face lit up when he saw her, and Hermione quickly averted her eyes, ready to pretend as if she hadn’t seen him. 

Keeping her eyes straight ahead, she had almost gotten past the group when McLaggen shouted, “Hey, Granger!”

She wondered if she could pretend not to hear him, but he had already detached himself from his friends, his long legs catching up with her before she could turn the corner up ahead. She slowed to a halt, grimacing.

“Oh, hello,” she said awkwardly, glancing at his friends, who were clearly pretending not to be paying attention.

“Had a good vacation?” he asked, grinning down at her in a knowing way that made it clear he didn’t actually know anything. He was standing too close again. Hermione rocked back on her heels.

She shrugged, glancing back down the hall, “Yeah, it was fine.”

“You know, I was thinking,” he said, barely listening to her response, “I feel like we were cut off at the Christmas party.”

Hermione forced the bewildered laugh that was climbing up her throat back down.

He seemed to take her silence as an invitation. “There’s a Hogsmeade trip coming up soon,” he said, “Maybe we could try again? I’m sure there will be less distractions.”

Hermione took a clear step back then. Trying her best to smile as if her skin wasn’t crawling, she shook her head, “Sorry, I don’t really have time to date,” she said, “What with schoolwork and prefect duties and...other things.”

Mortified, she turned and hurried down the hallway, leaving McLaggen looking dumbstruck. By the time she made it to the common room, it was full of students, all of the seats by the fire taken. Annoyed, Hermione went up to her dormitory, resolving to write her letter in the quiet. She pulled out her parchment and quill and sat on her bed, leaning her back against the headboard. Crookshanks stalked over, curling up on top of her feet.

She told her parents about her classes, the weather, and the upcoming Apparition lessons. She stared at the page long and hard, trying to think of any other updates to give, but there was nothing to say about Harry or Ron that wouldn’t make her more angry than she already was. Honestly, angry wasn’t the word. _Tired_. She was tired.

For a moment, she wondered if she should include anything about Blaise. She hadn’t told them about writing to him over break, often disappearing into her room for a time to read and respond, or else waiting until they were out for work. _Have you told them about me?_ His voice, the shy way he had looked away from her as he said it, echoed in her mind. She supposed she could tell them about him, but what would she even say? She felt flustered just imagining the ways her parents could read into her words, and she folded the parchment up and sealed it quickly before she could do something she might regret.

She slid her feet out from under Crookshanks and pulled her shoes back on before leaving the dormitory, hurrying through the crowded common room and out into the halls. As she wound her way through the castle to the Owlery, it suddenly occurred to her that her account of the weather might have let something slip about breeding Dementors. She quickly unsealed the parchment as she sidestepped the Bloody Baron telling off Peeves, and made a left at the portrait of two wizards trying their hardest to escape an angry bowtruckle.

_It’s been quite gloomy here though the snow is nice_.

She exhaled sharply. Good. But now, she felt the need to read through the entire thing, just to be sure there was nothing in it to alarm her parents or alert the wrong person should it be intercepted. Her eyes flew across the page.

“You should really watch where you’re walking,” Blaise’s teasing voice said from about four feet ahead of her.

Her eyes flew up from her account of her latest Herbology class. He stood facing her on the stairs leading up to the Owlery, on the second step from the bottom.

“I was just double checking the letter I’m about to send to my parents,” she said, trying to ignore the way her heart rate seemed to pick up speed.

He shook his head, “Overachieving even in your letter writing.”

Hermione flushed, “Did you just get done sending a letter, then?”

“To my mum,” he said quickly, scratching his broad nose, “I finished that book this morning. Thought she might like it.”

“That’s nice,” There was a beat of awkward silence. Hermione gestured up the stairs lamely, “I’m just gonna...go send this off.”

“I’ll come with you,” Blaise said, turning on the ball of his foot to walk back up the stairs.

“Oh,” Hermione said, startled, “Alright.”

She tried to continue reading the letter back on their way up, but she could barely focus. The staircase was narrow, which made it so that they kept bumping into each other with every other step, their arms brushing against each other. By the time they reached the top, she had decided to give up and trust that she’d done alright the first time.

She could feel Blaise watching her as she looked up to find one of the school owls. Normally, she would ask Harry to use Hedwig, who she saw snoozing up at the very top of the rafters, but she wasn’t talking to him. She spotted a barn owl not too far up, and stepped forward to call her down.

“So, you only write your mum?” she tried to be casual, but she felt awkward, her voice somehow coming out higher than usual.

Blaise leaned back against the perch, close enough that their shoulders touched lightly. She felt like a live wire had sparked right in the place where their arms touched, spreading through the rest of her. She tried to ignore it, to pretend that it was no big deal. She couldn’t help but wonder if he felt it too, but he seemed just as calm as ever. She focused hard on tying the envelope to the owl’s leg.

“Yeah, mostly,” he said, “There was this one girl I used to write to, but she hasn’t sent me anything since we got back to school.”

Hermione’s fingers fumbled around the string, and she looked up. There was that look again, from after the Christmas party. His eyes were blazing, and he was leaning closer to her, as if they were sharing in some big secret. Hermione was suddenly very _aware_ of his body, his warm scent. Their touching shoulders, it seemed, were the least of her problems, especially when he was smirking like that, his full lips tipped up lightly on one side. For a moment, her mind went blank.

“Well,” she said shakily, “She sounds lovely.”

Blaise laughed. It was higher than she expected, but warm and free. All of the building tension seemed to dissipate at the sound of his mirth, and Hermione grinned. She went off to help the owl out of the nearest window. By the time she turned back around, Blaise’s laughter had faded away, but a sweet smile graced his lips.

“Come on,” he said, jerking his head towards the exit, “I’ll walk you back down.”

She followed him towards the doorway without hesitation, and found herself racking her brain, trying to think of something to say or do that might make him laugh like that again.

“So,” he said as they reached the bottom of the staircase, “How is your start of term going?”

Hermione shrugged, “It’s fine. There’s a lot to do, but I’ve improved a lot on my time management.”

Blaise raised his eyebrows at her, “Do you mean to tell me you weren’t always good at time management?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but I can sometimes overdo things.”

“I have never heard that about you.”

“Well then you’ll be surprised to learn that third year Professor McGonagall wrote to the Ministry to allow me the use of a time turner so that I could take all of the classes the school offers.”

Blaise stopped walking, his jaw falling slack. “You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You traveled in time to take extra classes.”

“You know I never thought about it, but I’m technically at least nine months older than everyone thinks.”

This musing seemed to be too much for Blaise. A laugh burst from his mouth and he keeled over, his arms wrapped around his stomach.

“That’s — the most — _you_ thing — I have ever heard,” he gasped.

Hermione was giggling too as she truly processed her own ridiculousness and simultaneously took that moment to congratulate herself for succeeding in making Blaise laugh twice in such a short span of time. The sound of his laughter made her feel like she was standing out in the sun, even though they were still in the dead of winter.

“What about you?” she asked, once they had both calmed down a bit, continuing down the dimly lit hall, their footsteps echoing off the high walls.

“What do you mean?” Blaise asked, still smiling, his face a door unlocked.

“What is a peak ‘you’ moment?” as many letters as they had exchanged in the two weeks of Christmas break, Hermione only ever found herself wanting to know more about him.

“Hmm,” Blaise said, nudging her gently to the right so that she wouldn’t miss the turn that led to the Gryffindor common room. “I don’t know that I’ve ever quite achieved that level of self-caricature.”

Hermione huffed, lifting her nose with an air of superiority, “You’ve obviously not been trying hard enough.”

“I did ‘accidentally’ ruin a pair of one of my step-dad’s shoes,” he said, thoughtfully.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Selwyn. He always seemed hell bent on separating me and my mum. I don’t think I factored into his plans for her,” the ghost of a frown flitted across his face.

“He sounds awful,” Hermione said lightly, “Would the accidental nature of your vandalism hold up in front of the Wizengamot, do you think?”

Blaise grinned then, and Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. The way his cheekbones filled out when he smiled, the way his eyes flashed playfully...he should really warn her before he did things like that.

“It should,” he said, “It happened just before first year, actually. He’d said something cheeky, I don’t even remember what at this point. I’d gone to bed angry, and when I woke up his shoes had somehow found their way into Adonis’s cage.”

Hermione let out a cry of laughter, then clapped her hands to her mouth, worried she had been too loud. 

“Adonis didn’t eat them of course — he has taste,” Blaise said, wrinkling his nose. Hermione had dissolved into a fit of giggles. “They were hideous — some bright red monstrosity he was trying to pass off as dragon leather. He couldn’t get the stains off, even with magic.”

Tears dotted the corners of Hermione’s eyes, as she tried to keep her laughter in, her hand still pressed to her mouth. She put her other hand on Blaise’s shoulder to steady herself, taking a deep breath. He chuckled, joy still lighting his face, but something softer was pushing through.

Her laughter faded away as she suddenly became aware of what she was doing. Her hand suddenly felt like lead where she gripped his shoulder, electricity running up her arm. She bit her lip as she dropped her hand, feeling strangely awkward and self-conscious. Blaise looked away, his face closing off again. Silence stretched between them, tense and confusing.

Hermione cleared her throat, “I should, er…”

“Yeah,” he said, “Me too.”

He offered her a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. As he turned away, Hermione suddenly felt disappointed. She wasn’t sure what had been about to happen, but she was sure she had ruined it.

…

Hermione was trying her hardest to manage her clearly growing feelings for Blaise, unable to see how it could end anything but badly. Still, she appreciated having someone around who made her feel like she was interesting outside of her extensive knowledge on the twelve uses of dragon’s blood. It especially helped given that Harry and Ron continued to infuriate her.

Ron was oscillating between trying to talk to her as if nothing had happened and making snide remarks when she passed. Harry, on the other hand, refused to do his Potions work on his own, instead using the Half-Blood Prince’s instructions any chance he got.

“I have to try to soften Slughorn up if I’m going to get that memory from him, aren’t I?” was his excuse.

But one lesson, towards the end of January, seemed like it would finally backfire on him.

“Settle down, settle down, please!” Slughorn said from the front of the room, “Quickly, now, lots of work to get through this afternoon! Golpalott’s Third Law...who can tell me—?” Hermione’s hand shot up, “But Miss Granger can, of course!”

Hermione could see Blaise rolling his eyes at the Slytherin table, but she could tell he was amused by her.

“Golpalott’s Third Law states that the antidote for a blended poison will be equal to more than the sum of the antidotes for each of the separate components,” she recited.

“Precisely!” beamed Slughorn. “Ten points to Gryffindor! Now, if we accept Golpalott’s Third Law as true…”

Harry looked like he was going to be sick. Ron wasn’t even paying attention, doodling in the corner of his book as if someone would Apparate into the room and do the lesson for him. Hermione grinned to herself as she copied down Slughorn’s words into her notes.

“...and so,” Slughorn finished, “I want each of you to come and take one of these phials from my desk. You are to create an antidote for the poison within it before the end of the lesson. Good luck, and don’t forget your protective gloves.”

Hermione shot up out of her seat and grabbed her phial before anyone else could. She went back to her cauldron and tipped the hissing electric blue poison inside before starting the fire beneath.

“It’s a shame that the Prince won’t be able to help you much with this, Harry,” she said brightly. She couldn’t help herself, “You have to understand the principles involved this time. No shortcuts or cheats!”

Harry scowled as Hermione turned back to her cauldron.

She pulled out her wand and thought _Specialis Revelio!_ The potion separated into its disparate parts. She poured them out one by one into different phials. She recognized the fellviper venom immediately, and the nightshade. The others she had to check in her book. She had most of the separate antidotes in her potion-making kit, but a few she had to grab from the class stores. She poured it all back into her cauldron and set it to simmer before clipping a small chunk of her own hair and adding it in, changing the light, almost transparent peach color to a cloudy and swirling sunset orange. 

Harry sighed and stood, going over to the store cupboard.

“Two minutes left, everyone!” Slughorn called. Hermione added a few more ingredients into the now thickly bubbling cauldron, which had now turned a dusky purple. She turned the fire off and started scooping it out, tipping the contents into her bottle.

“Time’s...UP!” Slughorn called, “Well, let’s see how you’ve done! Blaise...what have you got for me?”

Blaise stood by his cauldron, arms crossed. As Slughorn peeked over at his final result, he raised his eyebrows at Hermione playfully. She bit her lip and looked down at her bottle of antidote. She suddenly realized she had forgotten the asphodel on her cutting board. She quickly grabbed some and sprinkled it into the bottle while Slughorn moved on to Malfoy, who looked like he had spilled vomit over the front of his robes.

Slughorn came to their table last. He sniffed Ernie’s potion, and almost gagged at the awful fumes coming from Ron’s cauldron.

“And you, Harry,” he said, “What have you got to show me?”

Harry held out his hand, a small shriveled stone in the center of his palm.

There was a long beat of silence. Harry began to turn red. Suddenly, Slughorn roared with laughter.

“You’ve got nerve, boy!” He boomed, taking the bezoar and holding it up so the entire class could see. “Oh, you’re like your mother...Well, I can’t fault you...A bezoar would certainly act as an antidote to all these potions!”

Slughorn hadn’t even looked at Hermione, had completely forgotten to look at the work she had done. He only had eyes for Harry. She felt a hot anger burn through her, making her eyes water.

“That’s the individual spirit a real potion-maker needs!” said Slughorn happily. Hermione’s hands began to shake as Slughorn went back up to his desk, her potion completely forgotten.

She tossed her things into her bag haphazardly and stormed out of the room as the bell rang. She was sick of this, of putting in so much effort and getting nothing in return. School was the thing she was good at, and Harry was just stumbling through, taking up space without doing any actual work.

She fought back her tears as she entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, knowing it would do no good to cry in front of Snape. She chose a seat as far from the back as possible, knowing Harry and Ron would probably choose to sit there.

By the time Harry came in, he didn’t look as triumphant as when she’d left the Potions classroom. She found out why at lunch.

“It was a disaster,” he said, sitting down across from her at the table like she wasn’t still furious with him, “Slughorn all but threw me out at the mention of Horcruxes.”

“Wow,” she said flatly, “Who would’ve thought Won-Won’s suggestion wouldn’t go as planned?”

“Hermione, can’t you just talk to him already?”

“Leave me alone, Harry,” she said sharply, opening up the autobiography of Seraphina Picquery Blaise had lent her the week before.

…

Even through her anger, Harry’s update on Slughorn’s memory reminded her that she wanted to look up information on Horcruxes. On her next break, she went to the Restricted Section of the library. She scanned the books and found two that she thought might work: _Dark Sorcery_ and _Magick Moste Evile_. After grabbing them both off the shelf, she went to find a quiet corner to read.

She found Blaise instead, sitting at a table on his own, books sprawled out in front of him as he scribbled neatly on a sheet of parchment. Sunlight peeked through the cloudy sky from the high window, briefly passing over him, highlighting the sharp angles of his face. She hurried over to him without a thought, a smile spreading across her face.

“Can I join you?” she asked once she was close enough.

Blaise looked up, his dark eyes bright. He gestured to the empty chair across from him, “Go ahead.”

Hermione dropped her bag on the ground beside the table and sat in the chair as he went back to his work. She slid _Magick Moste Evile_ in front of her, which let out a low ghostly moan as she opened it to the introduction.

Blaise looked back up from his Transfiguration essay, an eyebrow raised.

“Why are you reading such a creepy book?”

Hermione’s fingers froze on the first page. She hadn’t thought of this when she’d come over. She knew she couldn’t tell Blaise why she had really picked up these books, and she cast around for something convincing to tell him.

“I’m trying to understand the way werewolf bites work,” she lied, saying the first thing that came to mind, “I thought these might help.”

Blaise seemed to buy it, accepting her need to know everything about everything in the slightly exasperated way she had become accustomed to. “I doubt Snape will care if you’re able to pinpoint the exact magical property that creates the change.”

“Yes, but learning Defense is about more than getting good grades,” she pointed out.

Blaise’s eyes widened, looking startled, before he shrugged. “I suppose you’re right.”

They passed the rest of break time in silence, each of them focused on their own work. Hermione didn’t find anything about Horcruxes in _Magick Moste Evile_ except for a small mention in the introduction, so she turned to _Dark Sorcery_ in the hopes that it would at the very least shed light on what a Horcrux actually _was_.

Blaise started packing up his things ten minutes before the end of break. “What class do you have?”

“Arithmancy,” Hermione said, shutting the book.

“History of Magic’s in the same wing,” he said, pushing himself out of his seat. He jerked his head towards the exit, “Come on.”

He waited for her by the door as she checked her books out with Madam Pince, and then they strode out together. Hermione started to feel a little nervous, wondering what would happen if someone they knew saw them together. As if he had read her mind, Blaise made a sharp right, pulling open a tapestry and revealing a small corridor, a shortcut that would not only ensure they were hidden, but would cut across the castle to where they needed to go. Hermione ducked inside.

“I meant to ask,” Blaise said, adjusting his bag on his shoulder, “How are you after the bezoar incident?”

She had left her anger to simmer in the back of her mind in her more pressing quest to learn about Horcruxes, and it burned brighter now at the mention of their last Potions class. But she couldn’t let Blaise know how much it hurt. She suspected he had a bias against Harry, which she wasn’t sure was just from his being a Slytherin. “I’m fine,” she said tightly.

“Hmm,” Blaise said. Hermione looked up to see that he was frowning.

“What?”

“Nothing, just you looked really upset in class…” he trailed off, glancing down at her, his eyebrows raised.

Hermione huffed, “Well obviously I’m furious, but there’s nothing I can do. Harry is Professor Slughorn’s favorite.”

“Even among us favorites,” Blaise sighed, though he didn’t sound bitter. “I’m sorry he didn’t get to appreciate your hard work,” he reached out and tugged lightly on her hair, where she’d snipped off a bit to add to her antidote.

Hermione scowled at his sly grin and smacked his hand away, pretending that the contact didn’t sent her heart racing.

Up ahead, she could see the exit, could hear the chatter and footsteps of students just beyond the large framed portrait that was blocking them in, out of sight.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, curiosity in his eyes.

“Sure.”

“Why’d you hesitate to tell me how you were feeling?”

Hermione’s stomach flipped but she rolled her eyes, “Because if I tell you how I’m really feeling, you’ll just go into a diatribe about how that’s why you’re a loner who luxuriates in your own solitude atop the Astronomy Tower.”

Blaise laughed, but shook his head, “Nah, I wouldn’t do that. Not now that I’ve found you.”

His words made her blush, and her voice came out quieter than she intended. “Glad I could help pull you down from your tower.”

They slowed to a stop, just before the entrance. She looked up at Blaise, about to suggest that they leave one at a time, so that no one would suspect anything. But Blaise didn’t seem to be thinking about an escape. His eyes sparkled humorously, and he took a step towards her.

“Yeah, thanks for that,” he murmured.

He was so close, Hermione couldn’t see past the breadth of his shoulders. His warm scent filled her nose and her breathing turned shallow as he gently tugged on her hair again, his fingers winding their way through her tight curls. Her eyes locked onto his. There was a fire behind them, and she couldn’t look away.

She lifted her chin as he bent down, closing the already shrinking gap between them. And then his lips pressed against hers, gentle but firm.

Before she could think, before she could decide to kiss him back or pull away, the pressure on her lips was gone, his hand gone from her hair.

Her eyes fluttered open, just in time to see Blaise’s standard smirk before he pushed the portrait open and slipped out into the crowded hall.


	4. A New Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Blaise keep a secret.

Hermione couldn’t think straight. The rest of her walk to class was a blur, and though she was sure she had taken copious notes in Arithmancy, she wouldn’t have been able to say what she had learned. All she could think about was the brief moment where Blaise’s lips had touched hers. It played on a loop in her mind, even when she was changing out of her school robes before dinner and feeding Crookshanks.

At dinner, she deliberately sat with her back to the Slytherin table, trying to occupy her thoughts with her research. Finding the key to defeating Voldemort was far more important than boys at this stage, but it didn’t help that she couldn’t find anything remotely useful to adequately distract herself. Instead, she was reduced to reading about terrifying potions and curses that she had no doubt should be counted among the Unforgivable.

She hurried over to Harry after eating, who she found walking up to the Gryffindor common room on his own, Ron and Lavender nowhere in sight.

“I haven’t found one single explanation of what Horcruxes do!” she told him before he could even greet her, “Not a single one!”

Harry seemed disappointed, and she could tell he had placed a lot of hope on her finding something that would help to persuade Slughorn. Despite her previous anger, Hermione felt a surge of sympathy.

“There’s nothing else to do but to get that memory, Harry,” she told him as they approached an obstinate Fat Lady, where Neville Longbottom stood, the panic on his face melting into relief at the sight of them. “If Dumbledore didn’t tell you outright, he must want that memory before you get any further context.”

Harry grunted unhappily as Hermione recited the password, Neville shooting her a grateful look before hurrying inside ahead of them.

Hermione didn’t get a chance to speak to Blaise at all the next day, and it wasn’t because she was avoiding him. After having slept on it she decided that the kiss, and his immediate departure from the hidden corridor, was rather rude. He hadn’t given her any notice, and it seemed to her that she was at least owed that given their friendly relationship. She spent the day of classes sticking close to Harry whenever Ron was otherwise occupied by Lavender.

That Saturday morning brought the first Apparition lesson. Hermione walked down to the Great Hall with Harry to find the usual House tables gone to allow space for the sixth years. The ceiling was a dull gray, cold rain pounding down on the windows outside. The Heads of House and a small wizard Hermione assumed was the Apparition instructor ushered them all inside.

Once everyone had settled down, the instructor introduced himself.

“Good morning,” he said, “My name is Wilkie Twycross and I shall be your Ministry Apparition instructor for the next twelve weeks. I hope to be able to prepare you for your Apparition Tests in this time—”

“Malfoy, be quiet and pay attention!” Professor McGonagall snapped across the room.

Hermione — along with the rest of the Hall — glanced over to where Malfoy stood. He shot an angry glare at Crabbe. Harry fidgeted a bit, his eyes flitting over to Malfoy more than once as Twycross finished his introduction.

“I would like each of you to place yourselves now so that you have a clear five feet of space in front of you.”

The sounds of shuffling and low chatter erupted through the Hall as people tried to give themselves enough room.

“Harry, where are you going?” Hermione demanded when she noticed him dart off through the crowd. When he didn’t answer, instead making his way quickly over to where Malfoy and Crabbe stood, she sighed. She supposed she was used to being alone at this point.

“Hey,” a familiarly deep voice said from right beside her.

Hermione jumped, her heart suddenly racing a mile a minute. She blushed as she turned to see that Blaise had appeared on her other side, a smirk on his face. She felt a surge of indignation. “You’re too close!” she hissed, motioning for him to put the required five feet between them.

Blaise slid over as the four Heads of House shouted, “Quiet!”

“Thank you,” said Twycross, “Now then…”

He waved his wand, conjuring wooden hoops in front of each student.

“The important things to remember when Apparating are the three D’s!” said Twycross, “Destination, Determination, Deliberation!”

Hermione tried her best to take in what Twycross was saying, but even five feet away she could feel Blaise’s presence. It was as if he was a magnet; she couldn’t help but feel drawn to him. Each time her mind wandered from Twycross’s instructions to Blaise she became more flustered, more angry.

“On my command now...one—” Hermione looked up at Twycross, surprised. They had to Apparate _now?_

“—two—”

She tried desperately to remember what he had told them as Blaise shifted slightly on her left. _Destination_. Her mind suddenly took her back to the hidden corridor, to Blaise’s fingers winding themselves in the coils of her hair. _Determination_. His eyes had seemed determined, as he’d bent down towards her. _Deliberation_. He had deliberated, for a moment, just before his lips had touched hers.

“—THREE!”

Hermione stumbled forward, her heart racing, hair rising on her skin. Luckily, she wasn’t alone; the entire Hall was full of staggering people. Hermione looked decidedly away from Blaise, her face hot.

They were forced to try again and again, but other than a horrifying moment where Susan Bones got splinched, no one had made any real progress. Soon, the lesson was over, Twycross shouting the three D’s at them as a final reminder.

Hermione still felt frustrated by how distracted she had been. She couldn’t let a boy get in the way of her education. She steeled herself as she turned to Blaise, who was eyeing her playfully.

“There’s a classroom on this floor, next to where Firenze teaches Divination,” she said quickly as she passed him, heading towards the exit. She saw him give a quick nod of his head as his eyes wandered over her, to where Dean was helping Neville off of the floor.

Instead of heading up the staircase like the rest of the Gryffindors, she turned down the hallway just on the other side, trying her best not to think too hard about what she had to do.

She turned into the unused classroom. It was dim, the rainclouds outside doing nothing to bring in any natural light. Hermione shut the door behind her and went over to one of the desks in the front of the room, pushing herself up to sit on top. She bit her lip as she waited.

The door opened and Blaise stepped inside, glancing behind him briefly as he did. He shut the door softly behind him, his eyes adjusting to the gray darkness before they landed on her.

He raised an eyebrow at her, “What’s up?”

Hermione’s annoyance surged at how relaxed he seemed, and she crossed her arms. “You _kissed_ me!”

Blaise slid his hands into his pockets and approached her slowly, his eyes bright, “I did.”

She couldn’t find her voice for a moment. She didn’t know what she had expected. For him to deny it? An apology?

“I — it —” she felt flustered under his playful gaze, “You caught me off guard!”

His eyebrows flew up, “Off guard?”

“I didn’t know it was going to happen.”

He stood in front of her now, close enough to reach out and touch. He shrugged, “Neither did I. You can’t prepare for everything, Hermione.”

She scoffed, “I can try.” She didn’t know why, but his amusement made her more defiant.

“So,” he said, his eyes lingering on her lips before flitting back up to her eyes, “Do you _not_ want me to kiss you again?”

She gaped at him, heat rising on her skin, “I didn’t — that’s not — you’re infuriating!”

He leaned forward then, his hands on either side of her, gripping the sides of the desk she was sitting on. His eyes were now level with her, “And you’re pretty,” he said matter-of-factly. He smiled, “Especially when you look like you’re going to bite my head off.”

Hermione inhaled sharply. His scent was all around her, the fire back in his eyes. His lips were slightly parted, only inches from hers. He held himself there, teasing her. This was not at all how she had expected this to go.

Suddenly, it seemed, all reason left her. She grabbed the fabric of his robes, pulling him in closer. Their lips crashed together, Blaise’s hands sliding up from the desk to rest on her hips. Hermione felt hot, her heart racing, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was Blaise’s lips nudging hers open slightly, his hands gripping her tightly. Her own hands slid to the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

Blaise turned his face so that his mouth was at her ear. His arms tightened around her.

“So was that planned, then?”

“Oh, shut up,” Hermione said, taking his face in her hands and pulling it back to hers.

…

The change in Hermione and Blaise’s relationship proved to be a tricky one. One of the first things they discussed was keeping their relationship a secret.

“Things are so tense already,” Hermione told him. She could only imagine how difficult it would be if they alerted the entire school that they were seeing each other, when lines between Muggle-borns and pure-bloods were being drawn both explicitly and implicitly inside and outside its walls. On top of that Hermione didn’t want to hear anything about it from Harry or Ron.

Blaise agreed, assuring her that while he wasn’t afraid of the other Slytherins in his year, he would rather not have to look over his shoulder when he had to go to class, eat, and sleep in the same room as them.

So for the first month of their relationship, they attempted to navigate dating in secret. In class they sat far apart, barely looking at each other. Hermione found, now that they had worked everything out, she could go back to focusing the way she had before, answering questions and excelling in all of her lessons. She often sat with Neville when Harry was with Ron.

She and Blaise were doing well at toeing the lines of their respective Houses, even on the day when Professor McGonagall, having had it with the growing animosity between Gryffindor and Slytherin, forced her students to change seats and sit with someone of another House. Ron looked angrily at Harry, who’d jumped into the seat next to Ernie Macmillan, before resigning himself to sitting precariously in the empty seat next to Millicent Bulstrode. Blaise, however, walked straight up to Hermione, a deep scowl on his face.

Hermione focused on turning to the correct chapter in her Transfiguration textbook to keep from grinning as Blaise sat as far as he could from her at the small table, his foot resting against hers beneath it.

No one seemed to think twice about it, given McGonagall’s clear instructions, but Pansy Parkinson couldn’t help but comment as they emptied the classroom, making their way to lunch. Harry and Ron were quickly joined by Lavender and Parvati, so she didn’t attempt to catch up, falling back to allow the group of Slytherin classmates to exit the classroom before her. 

As she waited, she noticed Pansy hurry up to an exhausted-looking Malfoy, tugging on his arm to command his attention. Her hand slipped into his and she tried to say something, but Malfoy shook her off, pulling away and detaching from the group with a surly-looking Crabbe and Goyle.

A sour look twisted Pansy’s face as her eyes connected with Hermione. Embarrassment overtook her first, but then Blaise passed between them obliviously, and mischief lit her eyes almost immediately. 

“You alright there Blaise?” she called loudly to him as he started to turn down the hallway, “Granger’s Mudblood stench didn’t get to you, did it?”

Padma Patil, who had previously been in deep conversation with Susan Bones, looked up, a cry of indignation leaving her mouth at the slur. Hermione sighed internally.

Blaise’s face didn’t change, the disinterest he was so good at carefully keeping on his face stark as he looked from Hermione to Pansy and back. He shrugged, and suddenly Hermione felt nervous. What if he wasn’t as good at pretending as she thought?

“I suppose the hair would be the first thing you notice,” Pansy pushed, “Really, Granger, you need to do something with that bush.”

“Perhaps the eyebrows too,” one of her friends, Henrietta Travers, cackled behind her.

Pansy’s mouth spread into a grin, “Yes. Muggles don’t seem to care much for routine maintenance, do they?”

Hermione could see a flash of anger cross Blaise’s face behind Pansy, but she herself felt tired. She sighed, “Pansy, if there’s nothing else you can say about me other than that my hair is unruly and that I’m Muggle-born, I’d rather we just end it here—”

“Why’s that?” she trilled, eyes alight with anger.

“Because,” Hermione said, “I’ve got better things to do than be a punching bag for someone who is just upset that the person they would _rather_ have their attention doesn’t seem to care very much.”

Pansy’s mouth dropped open in shock as Padma and Susan giggled, evidently deciding Hermione didn’t need their defense after all. Hermione didn’t look at Blaise as she left the remaining class, hoping there would be a nice soup in the Great Hall to help knock off the persistent chill that clung to the halls.

To her surprise, she found Harry sitting alone at the Gryffindor table, his copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ open beside his plate of chips.

“No Won-Won?” she asked breezily, taking the seat across from him and ladling a hearty bowl of French Onion soup.

“Nah,” Harry said, with a look of exasperation on his face, “Apparently Lavender had something she just _had_ to show him up in Gryffindor Tower.”

Hermione frowned, “You should be nicer to her, Harry. It isn’t her fault she likes him.”

“I’m tired of the both of them, to be honest,” Harry sighed, shutting his book, “What kept you, then?”

“Pansy,” Hermione said with a shrug, “She seems to have her own love woes at the moment.”

“What, with Malfoy?” Harry seemed to jolt out of his weariness as if he had been struck with lightning.

“I dunno,” she said, suddenly wishing she hadn’t brought it up, “I suppose he _did_ seem distant.”

“But he loves all the attention he gets from Parkinson,” Harry said, “I wonder what he’s—”

“People drift apart, Harry,” Hermione said with a roll of her eyes, “Him not being interested in one girl doesn’t immediately spell ‘Death Eater’.”

“Yes, but you’re forgetting about the conversation he had with Snape! Look at all the facts, Hermione. Something is up.”

“That reminds me, I’ve got to go check out a book on Diverting Spells for that Defense essay,” she said, pushing herself up from her seat.

“You’ll be sorry you didn’t give this more thought Hermione, I’m telling you.”

“It seems to me like you’re giving it enough thought for the both of us,” she retorted, before swinging her bag back over her shoulder and turning away, eager to leave Harry’s obsessions behind her.

She didn’t go to the library, however; Harry didn’t need to know it, but she had already finished her Defense essay. Instead, she found herself heading back to the empty classroom on the first floor, where she had agreed to meet Blaise the night before for after-lunch break.

He was already there when she entered, hopping out of his seat and striding over to her, a warm smile breaking across his face as she discreetly pulled the door shut.

“Hey, I—” her words were cut off as Blaise embraced her tightly, pulling her into his chest. The scent of cinnamon and cloves clung to the fabric of his robes and Hermione giggled as she stumbled slightly back, clutching his sides, “What’s this for?”

“I hate that I can’t stand up for you,” Blaise murmured, burying his face briefly in her hair.

“Oh, that,” Hermione said, pulling back a bit to get a good look at his face. “It’s okay, it’s what we agreed on.”

“I know,” Blaise said, his arms still tight around her shoulders. “Still, don’t listen to Pansy. You don’t want to take brow-maintenance advice from someone whose eyebrows are shaped like mountain peaks.”

Hermione tried to keep a straight face, “You know I don’t need you to put her down to make me feel better, right?”

“‘Course I do,” he said, “I just needed to get that off my chest, it’s been bothering me all year.”

Hermione laughed as he kissed her forehead, just between her brows.

This was often how their days went. While Blaise often seemed aloof and cold during the day, he was affectionate and warm when they were alone, often finding reasons to hold Hermione’s hand, drape his arm around her shoulders, or kiss her.

One evening, they were studying together in the library. The table they sat at was in a quiet corner people rarely came to, but still they sat kitty-corner from each other, Hermione’s bag a low barrier between them. Under the table, Blaise’s leg rested against hers.

He looked up from his History of Magic reading, yawning.

“Are you done already?” Hermione asked, keeping her voice low as she skimmed a fifty-year-old issue of the _Daily Prophet_. They had only been there an hour.

“No,” he said, “I’m determined to stay here for as long as you do.”

Hermione glanced up at him briefly, smiling before going back to her reading. “You might soon regret that.”

“I was thinking though…” he said.

“Yes?”

“I want to take you on a real date.”

Hermione tore her eyes away from the newspaper. He wasn’t looking at her, his eyes on his book, fingers playing with the corner of the page. She sometimes didn’t understand him — how could someone who exuded so much confidence find a way to be nervous around her?

She frowned, “Hogsmeade weekend was canceled, and I’m not sure that would’ve been a good idea anyway…”

“It doesn’t have to be Hogsmeade,” he said, his eyes finally flashing up to her. There was an intensity in his gaze that startled her for a moment. He was really serious about this.

“What would we do then?”

Blaise sat up a bit in his chair, his leg jostling against hers. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” he said, “Just be ready Friday night.”

…

“Just be ready Friday night,” was all Hermione was able to get out of Blaise in the days leading up to their date. She tried everything she could think of to get it out of him, asking directly, tricking him, even very poor attempts at seduction. Nothing worked.

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” he said, squeezing her leg lightly after she had awkwardly and embarrassingly perched herself onto his lap in an abandoned classroom during their afternoon break.

“This isn’t fair, you know,” Hermione said with a dramatic sigh, “How am I supposed to know what to expect?”

“You’re not,” Blaise said with a grin before planting a kiss on her nose.

Even the time of the date seemed to be a secret, so when it was time for dinner Friday evening, Hermione made sure to dress nicer than she usually would. Instead of her usual jeans and jumper, she pulled on a black slip dress her mother had bought her last Christmas over a Weird Sisters t-shirt Ginny had let her borrow months ago. She decided to leave her hair out, and pulled on one of her cloaks for pockets and warmth.

“That’s cute,” Parvati said, giving her a once over as she entered the room to drop off her bag before dinner.

“Oh, thanks,” Hermione said nervously, “Just wanted to try something new, you know.”

“You coming down to dinner?” Parvati asked.

“Oh, yeah, er…” _was_ she going to dinner?

Before she could come up with a response, there was a tapping noise on the window nearest her bed. She looked up to see Blaise’s owl, Adonis, standing haughtily on the sill.

“You can go on without me,” Hermione said quickly, “I’ll see you later.”

“Suit yourself,” Parvati said with a shrug, turning to leave the dormitory.

As the door swung shut, Hermione hurried over to the window, opening it to let Adonis in. The owl stepped in and stuck out his leg in a dignified sort of way. Tied to it was a small package. Once she detached it, Adonis turned and flew off, out of the castle. Hermione shut the window carefully. Nerves fluttered through her stomach. Was Blaise canceling?

She tore off the wrappings, revealing a black velvet box with a silver clasp. She undid the clasp and opened the box. A quiet gasp left her when she realized what was inside: a gold watch with a white face. A note was attached to it.

_Join me in the Tower of Solitude. -BZ_

Hermione put the note in her pocket, knowing immediately where to go. She looked back at the face of the watch. The hands were made of tiny gold wands, stars denoting every quarter-hour. She couldn’t begin to guess how much it had cost.

She left her room, the watch clutched carefully in her hand, winding her way through the castle to the Astronomy Tower. She hadn’t been up here in ages, since her O.W.L. exams. At the foot of the tower was a spiral staircase which Hermione hurried up, ignoring the giddy nerves in her stomach.

She found Blaise at the top, his back to her. She watched him a moment, in his velvet forest green robes, as he raised his wand.

“I can’t accept this,” she said as a greeting.

Blaise whipped around, looking surprised. His eyes raked over her, taking her in. “You look nice.”

Hermione held her hand out, gold glinting through her fingers. “Blaise, I can’t keep the watch.”

“Of course you can,” he said, waving his hand dismissively, “Every witch should have one when they come of age.”

“It had to have cost a fortune.” Her family wasn’t poor by any standard, but they certainly weren’t anywhere near this wealthy. It was a well-known fact that Blaise’s mother had money, but still Hermione didn’t feel right taking from him.

“It was nothing,” he said with a shrug, “I like your hair.”

“Thank you,” she said quickly, determined not to be derailed. She held the watch out to him, “Here.”

Blaise took her wrist instead, pulling her closer to him. Her pulse sped up at his touch, and all she could do was stare as he gently took the watch from her hand.

Blaise smirked at her as he fastened it around her wrist. His fingers lingered a moment before he dropped his hands, sending little pinpricks of electricity up her arm. Hermione looked down at the watch. The gold of the band complimented her brown skin, bringing out it’s yellow undertones. The band wasn’t solid, instead it was made of thick chains linked together that looked a lot like… “Are those_ books?_”

“Yes,” Blaise said, “It suits you.”

He turned then, waving his wand as Hermione twisted her wrist in the dim light, taking in the small golden books, open and connected by tiny gold links. She looked up then, glancing around. The Astronomy Tower didn’t look how it usually did. Candles rose up from the ground, casting a dim glow over everything. A table sat a few feet away where the larger telescope usually stood, a deep red tablecloth spread beneath plates of food. Soft music floated through the air.

“You did all this?” Hermione said, her voice hushed.

Blaise shrugged nonchalantly, but she could see the excitement on his face, “I had a little help. The food is the same as in the Great Hall, but I paid one of the elves — the weird one who’s always in mismatched socks — ten galleons to bring it up here.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, “You paid him…?”

“He wouldn’t take more,” Blaise assured her.

She didn’t know what to say. She remembered the impassioned debate they’d had the week before about house-elves. Blaise had been adamant that the elves liked to serve, and while he may have conceded that they were taken advantage of because of it, he still wouldn’t outright agree to the total abolishment of the current societal structure. Still, Hermione understood what it meant that he had paid Dobby to help — he had heard her and realized that it was important to her.

“Come on,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her towards the table. He pulled out her chair to help her sit before taking the seat next to her.

“I hope the clouds clear up soon,” he said, sounding worried as he eyed the dark gray sky above them. “Otherwise, I set up everything here for nothing.”

“No, this is wonderful,” Hermione said with a smile. She looked out over the grounds, the straight grass and gray-blue lake and flush forest. “The view alone is worth it.”

“Yeah,” Blaise said quietly. Her gaze drifted to him, and she realized he wasn’t looking out at the Hogwarts grounds, but at her.

Hermione flushed and looked down. Her eyes were drawn to the watch again.

“Where did you get this from?” she asked.

“One of my mum’s old friends makes custom watches and clocks,” Blaise said, “I got the idea and then wrote to him.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open as she took in what he was saying, “So this was _your_ design?”

He shrugged, though she could tell he was really pleased with himself, “Not completely. The books were my idea though.”

She was astonished by just how thoughtful he had been. The gift, she realized, wasn’t just a way for Blaise to throw money at her. It was meant specifically for her.

“And your mum doesn’t care? About your spending so much, I mean?”

“It was all my money,” he said, shaking his head, “She set up a trust for me when I was a kid, but I can access it now that I’m of age.”

His reality was so much different than hers. To have a trust fund in a magical world felt almost the complete opposite of living in the non-magical world with solidly middle class parents.

“I can’t even begin to imagine that,” she said, picking up her fork, “I mean my parents give me money all the time, but not of that magnitude.”

Blaise nodded, “I try to be responsible about it,” he said, “It won’t last forever, but I hope I’m able to maintain at least some of it once I go off and start working, you know?”

“International Magical Cooperation, right?” Hermione asked, though she was able to recall his answer at Slughorn’s first dinner almost perfectly.

“Yeah,” he said, “I just like the idea of getting to go to new places, but also bringing people together.”

Hermione smiled, “What’s one place you haven’t been yet that you want to visit?”

Blaise seemed to hesitate, looking self-conscious for a moment. “I guess I’ve always wanted to go to Ethiopia. That’s where my mum’s folks are from, but I didn’t know them growing up.”

“Your mum hasn’t been in contact with them at all?”

He shook his head, “Not that I know of. I could maybe ask, but it always seemed like a touchy subject. I dunno, I guess even if I never meet them I just want to see where I’m _from_.”

Hermione nodded in understanding. “I think that sounds wonderful.”

Blaise smiled at that, leaning over to nudge her, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Well, you know all about what I want to do after school, but all I know is that you wanted to be a Muggle Professor before you came here.”

Hermione grimaced, “I...I’m not really sure.”

Blaise raised his eyebrows at her, “You have every week from now until the end of term scheduled and color-coded, but you don’t know what you want to do after?” 

She squirmed a little in her seat at the disbelief in his voice. “I just — I don’t know — find it hard to think about the far future.”

Blaise seemed to recognize her discomfort and softened his voice, “Why is that?”

She took a deep breath. For a moment, her chest tightened and she was back in the Department of Mysteries, surrounded by identical doors. She pulled herself back. “I _did_ used to think about it, when I first got here. I think I stopped around the time Harry came out of that maze at the end of the Triwizard Tournament.”

Blaise didn’t say anything, and she could tell he was remembering that moment too. Suddenly, she worried she had spoiled the mood.

“I don’t mean to be morbid or anything,” she said quickly, “Just, with Voldemort back everything is so...uncertain. There are so many things outside of my control that it can be overwhelming. It’s easier to think about what I _can_ control in the short term rather than dwell on plans that might not pan out the way I’d like them to in the long term.”

Blaise was quiet, and Hermione snuck a glance at him as she stuffed her mouth full of broccoli. Rather than look disturbed or upset, he looked thoughtful.

“Okay,” he said, “What were you thinking of before? Or what direction do you think you would go in?”

Hermione swallowed, thinking. “I suppose maybe something to do with policy? There are so many Ministry laws that haven’t changed since Voldemort rose the last time. The Department for the Control of Magical Creatures needs sweeping reform, but maybe the International Confederation of Wizards would be a good place to start, to address the more widespread oppressive structures. Ron’s dad used to be the head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office and it’s severely underfunded because the Ministry doesn’t prioritize the safety of Muggles and Muggle-borns — what?”

She had noticed then that Blaise was smiling at her. It wasn’t the broad, goofy grin he sometimes flashed when he was teasing her, or the knowing smirk he gave her when he saw through her posturing. It was softer, and yet more intense.

He shook his head, reaching out to brush her cheek with the back of his hand. “Nothing, just...you’re so passionate.”

Hermione flushed under his touch. “I-I suppose so…”

“I think you’ll be great in whatever you decide to do,” he murmured.

A brightness shined through his eyes as he leaned in, and she followed, all food and talk of the future forgotten. She held her breath, just for the moment before their lips touched. When they did, a gentle fire seemed to spring up, spreading through the rest of her body.

When they broke away, Blaise reached over and gave her leg a quick squeeze, his fingers lingering a moment before slipping away. Hermione watched him as he took a sip of water and then at the floating candles around them, lighting them even before the darkening clouds. It felt like they were in their own perfect bubble, their hopes and dreams and feelings for each other creating a thin barrier, protecting them from the rest of the world. Hermione wished she could stay in that moment forever.

…

The next morning, Hermione woke up feeling content. As she stretched and then went to get dressed for the day, her eyes kept falling to the gold watch on her wrist, and a smile would find its way to her face. She still couldn’t believe Blaise had gotten her something so thoughtful.

Lavender was already up and zooming around the room, her loose curls bouncing around her face. Parvati watched with an amused expression.

“Oh, I hope he likes it,” Lavender said, picking up the parcel wrapped in gold paper from the foot of her bed.

Hermione hadn’t forgotten that it was Ron’s birthday. It only felt a little strange not getting him anything at this point — they hadn’t really hung out in months.

“I’m sure he will,” Parvati said bracingly, before turning to Hermione, “You going down for breakfast?”

“Yes,” Hermione said as she pulled her wild hair up and out of her face, tying it into a messy bun on top of her head, “Want to go down together?”

“I’ll come down to the common room with you,” Lavender said, still bouncing off the walls, “I want to wait for Ron.”

The three of them went down to the common room together, Parvati and Hermione leaving Lavender at the entrance to the portrait hole.

As the two of them walked leisurely down the hall, Hermione reached up to tuck an errant strand of hair up and into her bun.

“Ooh, that’s pretty, Hermione,” Parvati said, her brown eyes tracking the watch on her wrist.

“Oh,” Hermione said, flushing. She self-consciously pulled down on the sleeve of her jumper, covering it, “Thanks. Late Christmas present.”

Parvati grunted in understanding, but Hermione wondered if her roommate actually believed her. Who got Christmas presents in March? But she couldn’t possibly link the watch to Blaise, Hermione thought reasonably. She probably wouldn’t even care to make a connection.

After breakfast, Hermione went back up to the common room. She was supposed to meet Blaise later but had an Arithmancy essay that she could work on in the meantime. She brought her work out by the fire to begin outlining her points.

She had just begun packing up when the portrait hole opened, Professor McGonagall striding in. Her eyes narrowed on Hermione through her spectacles, and she hurried over to her. “Miss Granger, I have some unfortunate news.”

Hermione’s blood went cold. The look on McGonagall’s face clearly denoted that something was wrong. Had someone died? Had the defensive spells she had put on her parents’ house proven weak? Her imagination flashed to her childhood home, a Dark Mark in the sky above it. Her breath turned short.

“What happened?”

McGonagall paused a moment before saying, “I’m afraid Mr. Weasley has been poisoned.”

“What?” Fear seized her chest. It couldn’t be.

“He’s in the hospital wing with Madam Pomfrey now. It seems Mr. Potter may have prevented the worst,” still she didn’t look optimistic.

Hermione stood, her homework forgotten. “Thank you for letting me know Professor,” she said quickly, before hurrying off to the hospital wing.

Guilt gripped her as she hurried through the corridors, running straight through Sir Nicholas before she had a chance to dodge him. She found Harry just outside of the hospital wing, sitting with a horrified-looking Ginny. His green eyes were wide with shock. 

“What happened?” Hermione demanded as she strode up to them.

“I—” Harry looked almost unable to speak. He swallowed. “Ron accidentally ate my Chocolate Cauldrons, you know the ones Romilda Vane gave me for Christmas?”

Hermione nodded, balling her hands into fists. She tried to take in the information and not panic. Once she knew what was happening, she could come up with something to do.

“Well they were, you know, spiked with love potion. Ron was all infatuated — it was a laugh, really — but I took him to Slughorn to get him sorted out,” Harry’s voice was flat, like he was reading something off of a piece of parchment.

“Slughorn fixed the problem easily, and he poured us all some mead. Turns out it was poisoned.”

“Professor McGonagall said you may have saved him,” Hermione prompted.

Harry nodded, rubbing his forehead before saying, “I found a bezoar. It — I think it may have stopped any lasting damage. At least I hope.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say. She had been so adamant about continuing her fight with Ron, so steadfast in her rightness that she hadn’t stopped to think if their argument even _mattered_. Hadn’t Ron been trying to talk to her since being back from break? And she’d ignored him, clinging to this petty issue in the midst of Death Eaters and deaths and disappearances. Her lip trembled and she looked away from Harry and Ginny.

“How long did Madam Pomfrey say we have to wait?” Ginny asked impatiently.

“I dunno,” Harry said, “She just sort of grabbed him and shut the doors.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Who could have done such a thing?” Ginny whispered, anguish in her voice.

She and Harry immediately launched into speculation about how Ron could have been poisoned, or who could have done it. Hermione didn’t join in, the guilt gnawing in the pit of her stomach, only one thought running in circles in her mind. She was a horrible friend.

…

The next day, Hermione walked down from the hospital wing to the first floor of the castle. Ron still hadn’t gained consciousness, but she and Harry had sat with him anyway through most of the morning. Lunchtime came and went, but eventually Hermione got up to go — she had a study date with Blaise.

As she adjusted her bag on her shoulder, she wondered if she should cancel. She felt tired and worn, a dark cloud forming over her head.

When she entered the classroom, she saw Blaise already set up, his book bag on the desk to his left, _Advanced Potion-Making_ open in front of him. He pushed himself up from the desk as she shut the door behind her, concern on his face. She hadn’t talked to him since finding out about the poisoning, but news of it had gotten around the castle quickly.

“How’s Weasley?” he asked, his voice gentle.

Hermione sniffed, “He’s still unconscious, but Madam Pomfrey says he’ll be okay.”

Blaise nodded, “And how are you?”

Hermione started to respond that she was fine, but the guilt and worry pushed itself up, and her eyes welled up with tears. Before she knew it, Blaise’s arms were around her, his chin resting on the top of her head.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, rubbing his hand up her back.

She held onto him tightly, letting the tears go. They stood like that for a long moment, before Blaise leaned back and wiped away her tears with his thumb.

“I’ve been so stupid,” Hermione said thickly.

“No, you haven’t,” Blaise said. His thumb was soft against her cheek, his brows furrowed as he focused on her.

“You’re just saying that because you feel you have to,” she said, rolling her eyes, “I was being petty.”

“And he wasn’t?” before Hermione could respond in indignation, Blaise rushed forward, “Just hear me out, okay? What if you had been the one to get poisoned? Would it still be on you?”

Hermione opened her mouth to retort but then stopped. She didn’t know what to say.

Blaise gripped her shoulders, “I’m not saying Weasley deserved what he got, and I’m glad he’s okay, but he’s reduced you to tears more than once this year, and not because he was almost fatally wounded.”

She didn’t understand why he seemed so adamant about this. “Blaise, he’s my best friend.”

“I just know how you are,” he said, “You give so much, but you don’t always think about what you should be getting back.”

Hermione gaped at him, surprised that he had noticed and listened to her that much to come up with that succinct of a summation. “You—”

“I’m not telling you not to be friends with him,” Blaise said, “Just...I think you two should have a conversation first.”

She nodded quietly, thinking. He wasn’t wrong — she had always been the one to forgive Ron when he did something wrong. She remembered the Yule Ball, the moment she was sure she could never like him as more than a friend; she had had to bury the hatchet with him then too.

Blaise took her hand and kissed the back of it lightly before gripping it more tightly and pulling her towards the desks he had set up for their studying. She decided she was glad she had come.


	5. A Tip in the Scales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione begins to prepare for the future.

Lavender was furious she hadn’t been told about Ron’s poisoning. Hermione felt bad — she had been in a fog the entire weekend, and it hadn’t even occurred to her that no one might have told Ron’s girlfriend. Harry, however, didn’t seem concerned.

“He’s been looking for a way to ditch her anyway,” he shrugged at dinner that Monday.

“That still doesn’t give us a reason to disregard her feelings,” she said, knowing that she would be upset were she in Lavender’s shoes.

Still, her focus was on mending her relationship with her friend. She had spent most of her free time that day writing down homework assignments and deadlines, copying her meticulously taken notes, and creating a priority list. She went to see Ron — who Ginny informed her was now awake — on her Tuesday morning break.

He was up, eating breakfast from a tray across his lap. He looked paler than usual, his hair and freckles standing out in sharp contrast. His face lit up when he saw her.

“Hermione!” he exclaimed through a mouth full of eggs.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, dumping her bag on the chair next to his bed.

Ron swallowed, “Still lousy, but loads better. Madam Pomfrey wants me to stay under observation for the whole week. I’m going to miss Quidditch.”

Hermione had heard about that from Harry, including the unfortunate news that Cormac McLaggen would be subbing in for Ron. From what she had heard of the previous night’s practice, she was sure Harry was wishing she had done something a bit stronger than a Confundus Charm, but she was just glad McLaggen’s energy was being devoted elsewhere.

Hermione took a deep breath. “Look, Ron, we should talk.”

Ron’s face turned sober, “I know, I agree. I, er, want to apologize.”

“Oh!” she had been sure she was going to have to pull it out of him.

“I know I’ve acted like a prat for months,” Ron said, looking a little embarrassed, “I guess I was just...going through my own things and ended up taking them out on you.”

Hermione sighed and crossed her arms, hugging herself. “Ron, I don’t want to rehash everything but...this isn’t the first time you’ve lashed out like this. And not just at me. Harry won’t bring it up because he’s just happy when you two are good, but you can’t keep treating people like dragon dung just because you feel bad.”

The words had been building in her mind for months — years even — and it felt good to get them out. Ron looked surprised for a moment, but his introspection brought on by a near-death experience seemed to be doing him some good.

“You’re right. And I’m sorry.”

Hermione hesitated for a moment before saying, “And you might want to think about how you’re treating Lavender too. She seems to really be concerned for you.”

Ron squirmed, his ears turning red as he mumbled something under his breath. 

Deciding she didn’t want to push it, Hermione reached into her bag. “Now, I’ve got all your homework. I’ve copied my notes to help you understand certain concepts and have marked where you can find further information in your books. I’d prioritize the Transfiguration essay, McGonagall hinted that the Laws of Elemental Transfiguration would come up in our exams—”

“Merlin’s beard, Hermione, I was just poisoned!” Ron groaned, “Can’t a bloke get some rest?”

“Exams are only twelve weeks away, Ron, and they won’t wait for you to recover,” Hermione said, pulling his work out of her bag and placing it on his bedside table.

…

That Saturday was Gryffindor’s Quidditch match against Hufflepuff and the odds didn’t seem to be in their favor. Harry had spent the week doing his best to dodge Cormac McLaggen, who kept harassing him about making his position on the team more permanent. On top of that, Dean and Ginny seemed to be arguing worse than ever.

“He’s just always around,” Ginny complained as she and Hermione stepped out into the breezy grounds, “I just need a moment to breathe, you know?”

“Maybe you two just need a break?” Hermione offered, “Or at least a bit of time apart.”

“I think we need _a lot_ of time apart,” Ginny muttered, more to herself than to Hermione.

“I suppose you’ll do what you have to,” Hermione said, internally wondering whether Harry would be happy if Ginny broke up with Dean for his own sake, or worried for the Quidditch team’s chances at winning the Cup. 

Hermione bid Ginny farewell at the changing rooms, veering off to the stands on her own. She would be going to the match by herself again — according to Ginny, Luna had gotten the job as Quidditch commentator — and she couldn’t go with Blaise because it was far too public.

She took a seat behind Seamus and Neville, who were chattering away excitedly. The sun above shone brightly through the patchy clouds, the wind mild but bringing with it a slight chill. She watched the clouds glide through the air as people filled in all around her.

Down below on the pitch, the players began to file out in robes of red and yellow. They mounted their brooms and took off to their respective positions, hovering in midair. Hermione could just pick Harry out, shaking hands with the Hufflepuff Captain. Madam Hooch’s whistle screeched through the air.

“And that’s Smith of Hufflepuff with the Quaffle,” Luna’s voice floated dreamily across the grounds, “He did the commentary last time, of course, and Ginny Weasley flew into him, I think probably on purpose, it looked like it. Smith was being quite rude about Gryffindor, I expect he regrets that now he’s playing them — oh look, he’s lost the Quaffle, Ginny took it from him, I do like her, she’s very nice…”

Hermione smiled, brushing away a bug fluttering near her ear. Luna sounded like she was having fun.

“...but now that big Hufflepuff player’s got the Quaffle from her, I can’t remember his name…”

Wings tickled her ear. She tried to wave it away again, before realizing that it wasn’t a bug, but a piece of paper. She grabbed it out of the air, confused.

It was small, a scrap of parchment bewitched to flap like a small bird. She unfolded it, revealing a familiar scrawl in black ink.

_I can’t see the match through your hair._

Hermione grinned, but didn’t turn around. She tucked the note into her pocket, suddenly hyper-aware that Blaise was just behind her.

Down on the pitch, McLaggen was shouting at Ginny, paying no attention to Cadwallader scoring for Hufflepuff. The stands erupted into cheers and groans as Harry flew off to shout at McLaggen.

Another note perched itself on Hermione’s shoulder.

_That McLaggen sure is something, isn’t he?_

She could hear the sarcasm in Blaise’s voice as she read it, could see his eyes flash mischievously, his face plastered with innocence. She took a deep breath and tried to focus on the match. 

The most entertaining thing, by far, was Luna’s commentary. The Gryffindor team seemed to be slowly unraveling with McLaggen on their side — even while Ginny, Dean, and Demelza did what they could to score points, he kept letting more in.

But Hermione had a hard time focusing. After the second attempt at getting her attention through a note had failed, Blaise had resorted to playing with Hermione’s scarf, using the Hover Charm to make the ends float up every once in a while. She knew he was having fun, and if she hadn’t known him, she would have been surprised by his playful nature. But she kept herself staring ahead as Luna mused about whether Zacharias Smith was suffering from an affliction known as “Loser’s Lurgy,” not wanting to give him the satisfaction even if it was amusing.

“Seventy-forty to Hufflepuff!” McGonagall shouted through the megaphone.

“Oh is it already?” Luna said, surprised.

She kept speaking, but Hermione was distracted by a sudden gust of wind, blowing straight through — and only at — her hair. She turned back to glare at Blaise, fighting to keep from laughing, and his face spread into a delicious smile, his eyes triumphant.

A loud gasp ran through the crowd, jolting Hermione back to the present. She turned, curious, and had to push herself up to see above the heads of Seamus and Neville, who were both standing. To her horror, she saw Harry plummeting to the ground.

Hermione turned and pushed her way out of the stands, hurrying to get to her best friend, Blaise’s games forgotten.

…

It turned out that a cracked skull was nothing by wizarding injury standards. To Hermione’s relief, Madam Pomfrey had mended Harry easily, and by that Monday both he and Ron were out of the hospital wing. That morning, she hurried off to collect them before breakfast, passing a bickering Ginny and Dean on the way out of the common room. 

She had to admit she was becoming more excited the closer she got to the hospital wing; this was the first time in months that the three of them would be together with no drama, at least not any of their own. Harry, in particular, seemed very interested in the details of Ginny and Dean’s fight, even though he tried to pretend otherwise. His cheeks turned a slight pink once she informed him that the argument had been about Dean’s amusement at Harry’s injury.

“There’s no need for Ginny and Dean to spit up over it,” he said breezily, “Or are they still together?”

“They are, as far as I know,” she said, trying not to smirk, “But why are you so interested?”

“I just don’t want my Quidditch team messed up again!” he said quickly.

Hermione hadn’t planned on pushing him any further, especially not with Ron there, but Harry looked relieved when they were interrupted by Luna, who passed Harry a note from Dumbledore regarding his next lesson.

“Tonight,” he told her and Ron under his breath.

The day overall was a good one, even when it became clear that Lavender seemed to have an issue with Hermione and Ron being friends again. Hermione hadn’t realized how much she had missed hanging out with her friends, and so it put her in a good mood.

That night during Harry’s meeting with Dumbledore, she looked over his Herbology essay, correcting some of his sentences and drawing up a conclusion. He came to join her close to midnight, looking embarrassed.

“Dumbledore told me off,” he said with a grimace as he plopped himself down in the seat next to her, “The memory completely slipped my mind.”

Hermione passed him his essay with a raised eyebrow. “Well, he _did_ say it was important…”

“I’ll do better from now on,” Harry insisted, “He said there’s not even a point in continuing lessons until I’ve got it.”

“So what are you going to do then?”

Harry shrugged, his eyes skimming over his essay, “I’ll figure something out.”

“Figuring something out” mostly seemed to mean a lot of reading and rereading the scribbles in his copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_. Trying not to be annoyed by it, Hermione spent her free time trying to think of a way to convince Slughorn to give up his memory. Speaking to him after a Slug Club meeting was out — she had checked with Blaise to confirm that Slughorn had stopped sending out invitations.

That Sunday night, Hermione noticed Harry poring over the Prince’s book yet again.

“You won’t find anything in there,” she said, unable to help herself. Here she was, trying to think up elaborate plans to get the information out of Slughorn, and meanwhile Harry was whiling away the time in some stranger’s notes.

“Don’t start, Hermione,” Harry said, “If it hadn’t been for the Prince, Ron wouldn’t be sitting here now.”

“He would be if you’d just listened to Snape in our first year,” she retorted, “The Imperius Curse is the only way to force someone to do what you want, and that’s illegal—”

“Yeah, I know that, thanks,” Harry said, still staring at the book, “That’s why I’m looking for something different. Dumbledore says Veritaserum won’t do it, but there might be something else, a potion or a spell…”

“I don’t think you’re going about it the right way,” she told him, “Dumbledore said only _you_ can get the memory. That must mean you can persuade Slughorn where others can’t.”

“How d’you spell ‘belligerent’?” interrupted Ron. He was paying no attention to their debate, instead frowning at his parchment.

Hermione leaned over, distracted. Ron’s essay was riddled with strange spellings and mistakes. She pulled out her wand as she shifted the essay towards her and set out to fix it.

Just as she was handing it back to Ron, a loud _crack_ echoed through the empty room. Hermione let out a little shriek as Kreacher appeared before them.

The house-elf bowed to Harry, “Master said he wanted regular reports on what the Malfoy boy is doing, so Kreacher has come to give—”

_Crack._ Dobby appeared next to Kreacher. “Dobby has been helping too, Harry Potter!”

Hermione stared at the elves for a moment, a mix of disbelief and frustration rising in her. “What is this?” she asked, turning to Harry, “What’s going on, Harry?”

Harry hesitated, “Well...they’ve been following Malfoy for me.”

Hermione suppressed a groan. Surely he wasn’t being so reckless, especially when he had a far more important job in the fight against Voldemort.

It turned out though, that Malfoy _was_ up to something.

“Harry Potter, sir,” said Dobby, “the Malfoy boy is breaking no rules that Dobby can discover, but he is still keen to avoid detection. He has been making regular visits to the seventh floor with a variety of students, who keep watch for him while he enters—”

“The Room of Requirement!” Harry said, smacking himself in the head with his book. Hermione and Ron exchanged a glance. “That’s where he’s been sneaking off to! That’s where he’s doing...whatever he’s doing!”

Hermione could see Harry’s wheels turning. He and Ron immediately devolved into theories of what Malfoy could be doing, how he had so many people working for him, and how they could get into the Room of Requirement to catch him in the act. Hermione chimed in every once in a while, but her mind was elsewhere, on the Hogwarts Express at the beginning of the first term. Harry had talked about Malfoy posturing to the other sixth year Slytherins. Was it possible Blaise had known something about this?

She pushed the thought back. She knew Blaise’s relationship with Malfoy was cordial, but it didn’t mean they were confiding in each other. She had to trust that he knew nothing about what Malfoy was doing past his initial bragging. And besides, they had more pressing matters. She stood and stretched.

“I don’t think you should forget,” she told Harry as she grabbed her bag, “That what you’re _supposed_ to be concentrating on is getting that memory from Slughorn. Good night.”

As she turned to the girls’ dormitories, she hoped he’d heard her, and that she would follow her own advice.

…

Things were stressful enough without Harry’s obsession with Malfoy. Tensions in the school had been rising steadily all year, but it seemed to be reaching a fever pitch as the Death Eaters grew bolder in the outside world. People were continuing to vanish, more than a few who were related or connected to students in some way. A third-year Hufflepuff was taken from the school because of their frightened parents, and a young boy had been arrested for trying to kill his grandparents. All at the same time, a good number of pure-blood Slytherins were teasing and bullying their classmates, making it clear whose side they were on.

“Your blood traitor family had better watch it, Weasley,” Nott called to him one morning just before Defense Against the Dark Arts, after it had come out that the Death Eaters were making house calls to some staunch advocates for Muggle rights. His threat had resulted in Ron letting off a few choice words and the deduction of twenty points from Gryffindor by Snape, who just so happened to arrive in the corridor _after_ Nott’s offending remarks.

The name-calling from her classmates didn’t worry Hermione as much as the disappearances and killings did. On one of her prefect patrols, Hermione had run into a sobbing fifth year Ravenclaw, who had just found out his Muggle-born mother was missing. As she tried to comfort him, she thought about her own parents and realized that she had no idea how to truly keep them safe.

She began to bury herself in research, finding that having something to do helped to stymie her worry. When she wasn’t trying to find anything she could about Horcruxes, she nagged Harry about getting the memory from Slughorn. He didn’t seem to be getting any further in his assignment from Dumbledore, and as the month of March wore on, Hermione started to wonder whether Harry even cared.

“Of course I do,” Harry said, clearly offended when she brought it up one evening by the fire, “It’s not that simple, Hermione. Slughorn barely lets himself be alone in a room with me.”

When Horcrux research proved futile, Hermione spent her free time looking up protective charms. While she had put up the standard ones around her parents’ house over the holidays, she knew that they would be nothing should Voldemort come to call. She needed a true plan, especially when things got worse — but what could she do?

A thought had begun to bloom in the back of her mind, but it scared her, so she pushed it away. Instead, she looked up information on the Fidelius Charm, wanting to know everything she could about it. But after her deep dive she realized that it couldn’t work — her parents couldn’t afford to just stop working, to be in their house for who knows how long while things died down in the wizarding world. So then she’d looked up protective charms that were rooted in the person rather than the place, but the magic was too experimental. The only person she’d heard of who had had a semi-successful go at it was Harry himself, but that charm hadn’t been placed on him under the best of circumstances. 

Hermione found herself in the Memory Charms section of the library more than once, a knot forming in her throat. Once, while staring at _Altering the Mind: Memory Charms for Beginners_, she wondered if it might not be better to just tell her parents everything.

Her stress and subsequent spiral into the dark depths of the library meant that she hadn’t seen much of Blaise lately. She was becoming distracted, and even when they did get a chance to hang out, she was often diving into her book of the day at random moments, desperate to find answers to her constantly worrying thoughts.

Blaise seemed to become more tense as the month wore on, but wasn’t less affectionate when they were alone together.

“Looking for more extra credit from Snape?” he asked after Hermione had pulled out _The Mysteries of Blood Magic_ for the fourth time in that hour. He had taken her free hand and was tracing patterns in her palm.

“Sorry,” she muttered as she skimmed the passage on requirements for familial protection through genetics. “I just needed to…” she trailed off, her mind wandering. It didn’t look like there had been any research on the effects of blood protection on Muggles. The lack of information could prove dangerous were she to try it on her parents. After all of this was done, perhaps she should work to reform Muggle Studies so that it actually looked at the effects of magic on non-magical people.

Blaise waved his hand in front of her eyes, “Earth to Hermione.”

She jumped, her cheeks warming, “I’m sorry,” she said, shutting the book with a sense of finality, though her fingers lingered over the cover. “I know I’m distracted.”

“You have been for the past couple of weeks,” he noted, looking down at her hand in his. He said it casually, but she could see the tension in his jaw.

“Things have just been...hard,” she said vaguely, knowing that she couldn’t explain the Horcruxes, or even that her plans for protecting her parents seemed to have hit a dead end. She didn’t believe that Blaise would run off to tell Malfoy anything, but still it was too dangerous. 

“I get it,” he muttered, winding his fingers through hers.

Still, the tension continued to rise. She gave his hand a squeeze. “How are classes?”

Blaise shrugged, “Same as always. History of Magic is a pain.”

Hermione nodded, “I’m surprised anyone is taking the N.E.W.T.s. It’s a fascinating enough subject, but it’s hard with Binns.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Honestly I wouldn’t be taking it if it wasn’t for my mum.”

“It’s not a requirement for the International Department?”

“No,” said Blaise, and when he cleared his throat he reached up to scratch his nose, “But she still doesn’t really believe I’m doing that. You know she’s been pushing me to do something that’ll make more money.”

“Yeah,” Hermione said, now wondering if anyone had written about the ways wizards had protected Muggles from Death Eaters and pure-blood fanatics in the past. “Still, it couldn’t hurt to have an understanding of historical wizarding relationships when you’re—”

Her watch let out a loud chime. She glanced down at it to see the wands pointing at the twelve and five, telling her that it was an hour before dinner.

“What’s that?” Blaise asked.

“I had to start setting alarms for myself,” she told him, sliding her book into her bag, “Things have been really hectic lately.”

“So you have to leave?” was it just her, or was there a hint of accusation in his voice?

She looked up sheepishly, “I told Harry and Ron that I’d go down to Hagrid’s with them before dinner. We haven’t really been down together in months since...you know. But Hagrid’s been having a hard time lately, so we thought we’d pop by to cheer him up.”

“Oh,” Blaise said, his face unreadable.

“I’ll be sure to bring you one of his rock cakes,” she said, pushing herself up from her seat.

Blaise frowned at that, “That doesn’t sound like anything I would be interested in.”

“They’re not so bad,” Hermione said with a smile before leaning over to kiss his forehead, “So long as you’ve got a good dental plan.”

Feeling vindicated by Blaise’s blooming smile, Hermione bid him farewell and hurried off to the entrance hall, where she’d said she would meet Harry and Ron.

…

It was another week before Hermione was able to get more than a brief moment with Blaise. Her breaks were often taken up by her research; she only occasionally allowed even Harry and Ron to join her in. Ginny had started coming to her more often to complain about Dean, and still, she was avoiding making the decision she knew she must.

The last Friday of the month was grim, dark clouds spewing rain nonstop, the lake beginning to spill over. In Potions, they were working on their first attempt at Veritaserum, which Slughorn didn’t yet expect them to excel in, but wanted a benchmark on which they could improve. Hermione found the potion extremely difficult, as the substances used were very sensitive to even the slightest deviation from the directions. Of course, this applied to all but Harry, who seemed to be brewing a near-perfect potion on his first go.

This didn’t irritate Hermione nearly as much as it might have earlier in the year, as she felt just as desperate as Harry for him to get on Slughorn’s good side. His work still didn’t help Slughorn’s frosty behavior much, and the three of them were quickly ushered out of the Potions classroom once lessons were over, Slughorn hurriedly wishing them a happy weekend.

“You see Hermione?” Harry said with a hint of smugness, “I told you it’s not that easy.”

“Maybe a Confundus Charm could work?” Ron asked, “We could try to get him while he’s fawning over Harry’s _clearly inherited_ potions prowess—”

“You just need to _persuade_ him,” she said, refusing to be dissuaded, “It’s not a question of tricking him or bewitching him, or Dumbledore could have done it in a second.”

“Yeah well I was hoping you would find something to help with that,” Harry admitted.

Hermione rolled her eyes, annoyance sparking, “You can’t just rely on me to — oh! I’ve got to go,” she’d glanced down at her watch and suddenly realized that she was late.

“Where are you off to?” Ron asked, suspiciously.

“The library,” Hermione lied quickly. Then, in a stroke of inspiration, she added, “You two are welcome to come with me. Perhaps Harry will find something to help him with Slughorn.”

Harry coughed awkwardly and Ron mumbled something about being busy.

Hermione huffed, “_Typical_.”

She left them, turning down a corridor that led towards the library, even though she wasn’t actually going that way. Taking a roundabout way was going to make her later than she already was, but there was nothing that could really be done for it if she didn’t want Harry and Ron to be suspicious of her. 

She’d missed Blaise, even in the midst of being so busy with work and — if she was being honest — being afraid they would get found out. He had risked sending her a note, asking her to meet in one of the courtyards, so she agreed.

It was pouring when Hermione stepped outside, so she pulled out her wand and muttered a small shield charm to stand in as an umbrella. Through the rain she could see a familiarly tall figure, standing under his own shield. She smiled, hurrying over.

“Hi,” she said, pushing up on her toes to kiss Blaise quickly on the lips, “I’m sorry I’m late. I got held up with Harry after class.”

Blaise seemed a little stiff, barely kissing her back. When Hermione settled back onto her feet she looked up at him, noticing the hardness in his eyes. “It’s alright.”

She raised her eyebrows at him, “Everything okay?”

He shrugged, but he wouldn’t look at her. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound it.”

“It’s nothing,” Blaise said tightly, “I just haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I know,” Hermione said, feeling slightly defensive, “I’ve just had my hands full with classes and trying to help Harry.”

Blaise’s eyes flashed at the sound of Harry’s name. “Well don’t let me stop you.”

“What?” she didn’t understand why he was acting this way, “I thought you wanted to hang out.”

“You don’t seem all that fussed to be honest.”

Hermione could feel pressure building in her chest. She didn’t need this on top of everything else. “I thought you would get it — things are getting dangerous. We have to be more cautious.”

“That doesn’t stop you hanging out with Potter.”

Hermione felt like she had been slapped. She had been so excited mere moments ago, but now all she felt was anger at Blaise’s obtuseness. Why was he comparing their relationship to Harry all of a sudden?

“Harry is my best friend.”

“And I’m your boyfriend.”

Hermione’s anger flared, and with it, tears began to well in her eyes. “Have you not been paying attention? This is so much more important than romantic relationships!”

Blaise shook his head, “You can’t tell me you believe that crap about Potter being the ‘Chosen One’. You’re smarter than that.”

Hermione started to respond but pulled back. She couldn’t talk to Blaise about this, not when it was dancing so close to information not meant for those outside of the Order. She shook her head, “That’s not the point. Everything going on right now is much bigger than you or me — and I’m actually in _real _danger. You’re just being short-sighted and selfish.”

Fury flashed across Blaise’s face. “Fine then. I’ll just go be short-sighted somewhere else.”

“You do that,” Hermione said scathingly. Her heartbeat was racing. She wiped her tears as she watched Blaise storm away, rain splattering off of his shield.


	6. The Struggles of Separation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione's relationship with Blaise is questioned.

Hermione was upset for the rest of the day. She was short with Harry and Ron, and went to bed early to avoid strange looks and probing questions from the both of them. Even as she tried to sleep, she kept playing her argument with Blaise over in her head, fueling her anger and making it hard to drift off.

The rain let up overnight, so that when it was time for she and Ron to go to Hogsmeade for their Apparition practice Saturday morning, it was relatively dry, if not still gloomy. Harry was preparing to try to find Malfoy while they were out, to Hermione’s annoyance.

“You’d do better to go straight to Slughorn’s office and try and get that memory from him,” she hissed. In that moment, Blaise entered the entrance hall from the Great Hall. Her irritation spiked as she turned away from him resolutely.

“I’ve been trying!” said Harry. When she rolled her eyes, he added, “You saw him yesterday. He doesn’t want to talk to me, Hermione! He can tell I’ve been trying to get him on his own again, and he’s not going to let it happen!”

“Well, you’ve just got to keep at it, haven’t you?” she said, her misplaced anger spilling out in her words.

She and Ron joined the line to leave the castle, held up by Filch’s inspection, and Harry wished them good luck. Blaise was only a few people ahead of them, but Hermione pretended not to notice. His words were still swirling around in her head.

After Filch was done poking and prodding at them with Secrecy Sensors, Hermione and Ron began their trek to Hogsmeade. Ahead of them Hermione noticed Parvati walking with her sister Padma.

“Glad Lavender’s not of age yet,” Ron sighed.

Hermione glanced at him, “You do know it’s okay to just break up with her, right?”

Ron jumped as if she had poked him with a sharp stick. Looking around quickly he said in a hushed voice, “She’s not that bad. I just need my space is all.”

Thinking he sounded a lot like his sister, Hermione tilted her head at him, “Are you sure, Ron? Because it doesn’t seem like you’ve been very interested in her lately.”

He sighed, “We used to have fun, you know? Now it feels like she’s trying to get serious…”

“I wonder what would give her the impression that you wanted to be serious,” Hermione said in a deadpanned voice, “It doesn’t sound to me like you want a real relationship. It’s not just ‘fun’—” she broke off suddenly, thinking about Blaise. Even in her lingering anger she wondered, had he only been with her because it was fun? Maybe that was why he’d snapped, upset that the darkness of the real world was impeding on their time together.

“But how am I supposed to break it off?” Ron asked, not noticing Hermione’s change in demeanor. “Everytime I hint at it she just clings tighter.”

“You have to be straightforward and honest about what you want,” she heard herself say, “And don’t be a coward about it.”

As she said this to him she wondered if the same applied to her. She didn’t want to be with someone who she couldn’t share the difficult moments with. But did that mean she wanted to break up with Blaise? Was he going to break up with her? Just the thought alone broke through her ill temper and sent her mind into a tailspin. She was still upset, and wasn’t anywhere close to being ready to talk to him, but what if this was it? He hadn’t looked at her once since yesterday morning. What if their first fight was also their last?

They got to a cold and gray Hogsmeade, where Twycross was waiting for them near the boarded up Zonko’s Joke Shop.

“Gather round students,” he called weakly, “Today we’ll be taking a more practical approach to Apparating.”

Hermione forced herself to focus on what the instructor was saying. She had been able to Apparate since the second lesson back in the Great Hall, but knew from her research that doing so further than a wooden hoop and in real world elements could prove to be more difficult.

But she did well, prompting Twycross to fawn over her as they all got drinks at the Three Broomsticks once the lesson was over.

“I’ve never seen someone take to Apparition so naturally!” he cried, making Ron roll his eyes good-naturedly and Hermione squirm in her seat. “Truly, perhaps not since Dumbledore himself!”

Hermione took a large gulp of butterbeer so that she wouldn’t have to respond, and she wondered how old Twycross was as her eyes unconsciously drifted over to Blaise on the other side of the pub. He would have understood her discomfort, she thought. His back was to her as he sat with Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass, his fingers playing with the grooves of the full glass of butterbeer in front of him. Was it just her or did he look tense?

“Hey Madam Rosmerta,” Ron said suddenly, jerking Hermione out of her thoughts and pulling her gaze away from Blaise, “Have you heard the one about the hag, the Healer, and the _Mimbulus Mimbletonia_?”

The barkeeper raised an eyebrow in mock interest. Hermione kept drinking as Ron told his joke, snickering to herself when Madam Rosmerta had no reaction to his punchline.

…

Hermione didn’t speak to Blaise for an entire week. By Monday she was completely over her anger, and by Tuesday morning she could admit that though his delivery was off Blaise wasn’t wrong for being upset by how distant she had become. She’d tried to think of ways to find and talk to him, but no opportunity presented itself. By Thursday she was starting to worry that maybe they really _had_ broken up.

That Friday was the first sunny day they had had in weeks, and Hermione sat with Harry and Ron in the courtyard after lunch, trying to soak up some sun before her and Ron’s Apparition test. She was skimming the pamphlet they had been given to prepare for the test, but her mind was wandering as she wondered to herself if she could find a way to get Blaise on his own in Hogsmeade.

A girl entered the courtyard, causing Ron to duck behind her.

“It isn’t Lavender,” she said with a bored sigh, shrugging Ron’s hand off of her shoulder as the girl passed Harry a letter.

Harry opened it, disbelief twisting his face the further he read.

“Look at this,” he said, passing it to Hermione.

She read it quickly. It was from Hagrid, informing them that his pet acromantula Aragog had finally died, and asking them to use the Invisibility Cloak to attend the funeral that evening.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, passing it to Ron.

“He’s _mental_!” Ron said angrily.

She was glad both of them were on the same page; they had checked in on Hagrid in the time leading up to Aragog’s death, but there was no way they would risk getting caught after hours to bury a monster they were less than fond of, one who had literally tried to kill Harry and Ron. Harry, though, couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off of the tear-blotted note, pity turning down the corners of his mouth.

“Harry, you _can’t_ be thinking of going,” she exclaimed. “It’s such a pointless thing to get detention for.”

Harry sighed, folding up the note and shoving it into his pocket, “Yeah, I know. I s’pose Hagrid’ll have to bury Aragog without us.”

“Yes, he will,” Hermione said, relieved. She then changed the subject to more pressing matters, “Look, Potions will be almost empty this afternoon, with us all off doing our tests...Try and soften Slughorn up a bit then!”

“Fifty-seventh time lucky, you think?” said Harry wearily.

“Lucky,” Ron said suddenly, “Harry, that’s it — get lucky!”

His words seemed to puncture through Hermione’s cluttered brain, “Ron, that’s — that’s it!” she said, “Of course! Why didn’t I think of it?”

Harry seemed hesitant to use the liquid luck, but after some pushing he agreed. “If I can’t get Slughorn to talk this afternoon, I’ll take some Felix and have another go this evening.”

The bell rang soon after, signaling that it was time for Hermione and Ron to head over to Hogsmeade for their Apparition test. Ron was jittery, but Hermione tuned him out, muttering the three D’s under her breath.

There was a moment, as they were winding up the road, where her eyes met Blaise’s and her words died in her throat. Before she could think anything he looked away, leaving her feeling as if she had just run uphill.

She had to focus on the task at hand. Once they got to Zonko’s, Twycross explained that he would examine them one by one, and that they were to Apparate from here to the Hog’s Head Inn at the other end of the street. Susan Bones was first.

Hermione recited the steps in her mind over and over until Anthony Goldstein finished his turn and her name was called. She took a deep breath and hurried forward.

“Alright, Miss Granger,” Twycross said with an encouraging smile, “You may proceed.”

Hermione took another steadying breath. _Destination. Determination. Deliberation_. She felt her body twist and compact, sliding through a small tube and then spitting out into the open air, landing neatly in the street, just in front of the Hog’s Head. She grinned.

She waited for Ron to go, and at first it seemed that he had passed too, until Twycross noticed the half-eyebrow he had left behind. Once everyone had gone — Blaise passed effortlessly — they made their way back to the castle, Ron grumbling the whole way there.

His woes were quickly forgotten as they met Harry for dinner, eager to find out if he had succeeded in getting Slughorn’s memory. He hadn’t, it turned out, and so there was only one course of action left.

They hurried up to the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory after dinner. Harry searched through his trunk before finding a ball of rolled-up socks. He pulled a tiny bottle from it.

“Well, here goes,” he said, raising the bottle to his lips and taking a gulp.

“What does it feel like?” Hermione whispered.

Harry’s face seemed to relax, worry lines smoothing out and a carefree smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Excellent,” he said, grinning, “Really excellent. Right...I’m going down to Hagrid’s.”

“What?” Hermione and Ron said at the same time.

“No, Harry,” Hermione was confused, “You’ve got to go and see Slughorn, remember?”

“No,” said Harry firmly. He seemed to puff his chest out a bit, “I’m going to Hagrid’s, I’ve got a good feeling about going to Hagrid’s.”

“You’ve got a good feeling about burying a giant spider?” Ron sounded skeptical.

“Yeah,” said Harry, pulling his Invisibility Cloak from his bag. “I feel like it’s the place to be tonight, you know what I mean?”

Hermione grabbed the bottle from Harry and held it up to the light, peering into it. “This _is_ Felix Felicis, I suppose? You haven’t got another little bottle full of — I don’t know —”

“Essence of Insanity?” Ron put in.

Harry just laughed. “Trust me, I know what I’m doing...or at least Felix does.”

He winked and pulled on the cloak, disappearing before them. Hermione exchanged a wary glance with Ron and shook her head, following Harry down the stairs.

“What were you doing up there with _her_?” a shriek cut across the common room as the three of them came to the bottom of the stairs, Harry unseen. Lavender looked livid.

Hermione grimaced as Ron began to splutter. “I didn’t — we weren’t—”

Just then, the portrait hole opened and Ginny and Dean stepped inside.

“_Don’t_ push me, please, Dean,” Ginny snapped, “You’re always doing that, I can get through perfectly well on my own.”

“I didn’t even touch you,” Dean retorted.

“I can’t believe you would do this, Ron.”

“I don’t even see what the big deal is, I’m only being considerate.”

“No, you’re pushing me around!”

“Lavender, calm down…”

The bickering was getting to be too much for Hermione. She turned to the girls’ staircase and hurried up to grab the book on her bedside table. She had a few more days before it was due in the library, but she had finished it already and she needed to get out of Gryffindor Tower until things died down.

She walked quickly through the common room, where both couples were still going at it, hurtling through the portrait hole and into the quiet.

…

As she headed towards the library, Hermione couldn’t help but compare Ron’s and Ginny’s relationship woes to her own. She thought about Blaise’s angry face, how she had called him selfish. Regret sat heavily in the back of her mind. She wondered for a moment if she should write him. But no, she felt that the conversation was best had in person. Would he agree to meet her if she asked?

She entered the library, making for Madam Pince’s desk. A familiar figure was standing in front of it, a brown hand scooping up a book from the surface. Hermione froze, her heart beating in her ears.

Blaise turned. His eyes widened slightly when he saw her, but before she could say or do anything they went blank. His fingers tightened around his book as he walked past her without a word.

Hermione didn’t expect the pain that rose in her chest, her eyes stinging, her breath shortening. Was that really it? She tried to swallow her emotions as she walked up to Madam Pince, passing her the book. Once the librarian was finished checking the book, Hermione turned from the desk quickly, hurrying out of the library.

Blaise was just outside, sitting at the foot of the staircase that led up to the Transfiguration corridor. Hermione stopped in surprise, watching as he pushed himself up. He was frowning at his shoes.

“Can we talk?” he asked quietly.

Hermione nodded, relief mingled with a new wave of fear. She followed Blaise in silence, their footsteps the only sound echoing through the halls. She bit her lip as she looked up at his face, taking in his clenched jaw, his guarded eyes. She desperately wished she could tell what he was thinking.

They ended up in the trophy room, surrounded by medals and plaques given to students for various good deeds. Torches dimly lit the room along the walls. Blaise shut the door gently behind Hermione as she stepped inside, arms crossed around her front.

She turned to him, steeling herself.

Blaise took a deep breath, “Look. I’m sorry, Hermione.”

Hermione stared, the back of her throat beginning to itch.

Blaise frowned and shook his head. “I shouldn’t have gotten so upset — I _know_ how bad things are, and I know they’re getting worse. I just, I’ve been feeling a lot of pressure from my mum, and I ended up taking out my frustrations on you. That shouldn’t have happened.”

She felt relief at his words, but still the air sat heavy between them. His shoulders were slumped forward, his teeth chewing on his bottom lip. She took a step towards him, her arms loosening around herself.

She took a deep breath, hoping that what she was about to say would reach open ears. “You have to find other people to confide in,” she told him gently, “I want to be there for you, really, but I can’t be the _only_ person.”

Blaise nodded, “You’re right,” he said, “That’s a lot to put on one person.”

Hermione could tell, now that they were alone, how much he had been wanting to talk to her. His attitude was often hard to gauge when they were out in public; he was so used to blending in, to hiding himself. But now she could see the regret on his face, could feel his longing as he rocked back and forth on his feet. She took another step towards him, reaching out to take his hand.

“I want to apologize too.”

Blaise’s eyes met hers, confusion on his face. He squeezed her hand, “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

She shook her head, “I shouldn’t have been so dismissive. And I...I haven’t fully been honest with you.”

She paused a moment, taking in the surprise on Blaise’s face. 

“My friendship with Harry and Ron is...deeper than most people probably realize,” she started. “When Ron and I became friends with Harry we ended up on a path that is difficult at best and dangerous at worst. But we know what we’re getting into, and I don’t plan on stopping anytime soon.”

She looked him in the eye, wanting to make sure he got this next part. He was frowning slightly, but he was listening.

“There are things we’re dealing with that I can’t tell you about,” she said, “I’d like to say that I _want_ to tell you, but I don’t. It’s too dangerous. For them, for me, for you. And for a lot more people than even I’m able to get my head around. I just need you to understand that it doesn’t have anything to do with how I feel about you or our relationship. It just is what it is.”

He didn’t speak at first, his eyebrows pushing further together as his frown deepened. For a moment, a flash of fear ran through her mind. This could be a problem — her inability to be completely honest with him could be the thing that split them up for good.

But Blaise’s eyes flashed back to hers with a warmth she hadn’t seen in days. He leaned down, pressing his lips softly to hers. Hermione reacted instinctively, her free hand coming up to rest on the back of his neck. Blaise’s arms wrapped around her tightly, his scent enveloping her as he deepened the kiss.

He pulled back slightly, their noses still touching. “Okay.”

Elation ran through her, and she grinned as her arms slid around Blaise’s neck, to keep him close. “I’ve missed you.”

Blaise smiled at that, bright and brilliant. As he closed the distance between their lips once more, Hermione could feel a warm giddiness filling her up, and felt as if she had been the one to take Felix Felicis.

…

Blaise walked Hermione back to the Gryffindor common room a while later. They didn’t hold hands in the halls; though there was little chance of anyone running into them this close to curfew, Hermione remembered that Harry might still be out there, coming back from his trip to Hagrid’s. Still, she couldn’t help but drift towards Blaise, their hands occasionally bumping and brushing each other, sending Hermione’s heart racing each time.

They slowed to a stop a few yards from the Fat Lady.

“I’ll see you later,” Blaise said, brushing a stray coil of Hermione’s hair from her face and lightly kissing her forehead.

He started to turn away, but Hermione grabbed his hand and pulled him back, pushing up on her toes to plant a kiss on his lips. “See you,” she said as she settled back down, smiling at the surprise on his face.

Blaise seemed to hesitate a moment, a spark in his eyes, before he gave her hand one last squeeze and turned away, making his way down to the Slytherin common room.

“Cutting it a bit close, aren’t we?” the Fat Lady said with a wink.

“_Tapeworm_,” Hermione said in response.

After climbing through the portrait hole, Hermione found Ron alone, sitting on the armchair nearest the fire, his face white.

“Harry not back yet?” she asked breezily. She felt as if a large weight had been lifted off of her chest, and everything around her seemed to emit a soft glow. The prospect of learning about Slughorn’s memory seemed even more exciting.

Ron shook his head, “Nah not yet,” he glanced at her quickly and then back into the fire, “Lav dumped me.”

Despite having a strong feeling that it was coming, Hermione felt some sympathy. “Are you okay?”

He shrugged, “I mean it wasn’t pleasant, you know, the dumping part. But at least I don’t have to pretend anymore, right?”

“Hmm.” Hermione inwardly thought Ron had done a pretty poor job of hiding his lack of feelings from Lavender, which ended up being a part of the problem, but figured now wasn’t the time to say as such.

“I think Ginny and Dean might be done too,” Ron said. He seemed even more relieved about this information, and Hermione had to keep herself from rolling her eyes. She thought about Harry, wondering what he would make of the news.

“Well,” she said, “It seems tonight has been eventful.”

Ron snorted, “You could say that.”

Hermione watched as the last of the Gryffindor students — two third years struggling to carry their copies of _Monster Book of Monsters_ up the stairs — filed out of the common room.

“I’m going to grab a book to read,” she told Ron, “If Harry comes while I’m gone, don’t let him say anything until I get back.”

Ron nodded and Hermione turned to head up to her dormitory. She glanced down at her watch, wondering how long it would take Harry to get back. The sight of the books clasped together around her wrist made her think of Blaise again, her stomach fluttering.

She had pushed the door to the sixth year girls’ dormitory open and was halfway to her trunk before she registered the sound of someone sniffling. She looked up to see Parvati sitting next to a crying Lavender on her bed, consoling her. Suddenly, what Ron had said to her downstairs came back to her and she immediately felt guilty. She hadn’t thought about Lavender at all.

“Hey Lavender,” she said now, quietly, “Are you okay?”

Parvati grimaced as Lavender’s head shot up, her red puffy eyes narrowing at her, “Am I _okay_? I can’t believe you would ask me that after stealing my boyfriend.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. Her first impulse was to laugh, but she quickly realized that likely wouldn’t go over well. “What are you talking about? I would never — I wouldn’t even _want_ to!”

“Oh, don’t give me that ‘I don’t even know why anyone would want to date Ron’ farce,” Lavender spat, rolling her eyes. “The two of you haven’t talked since we started dating, and now that you’re cool again all of the sudden he’s ignoring me.”

Hermione sighed, “I wasn’t speaking with him because he was being absolutely horrid to me. Once we became friends again, I’m the one who told him to treat you better.”

Lavender scoffed, her hurt feelings feeding her anger, “That’s a likely story. You were just waiting for your chance.”

“Lavender, I have a boyfriend,” Hermione blurted out. 

Both Lavender and Parvati gaped at her, and Hermione clapped her hands to her mouth, horrified. Panic rose in her chest. She hadn’t meant for it to come out, but her exasperation had cut through her reason. What was she going to do now?

Parvati tilted her head to the side, “Who is it?”

Hermione bit her lip, “I...I shouldn’t say.”

Lavender rolled her eyes, “Of course not.”

“Is it McLaggen?” Parvati pressed.

Hermione couldn’t stop herself from wrinkling her nose in disgust, “Absolutely not.”

“Come on, Hermione, we’re your roommates.”

“He isn’t _real_, Parvati.”

Hermione was stuck. She supposed she could lie, say she was back with Viktor or that she and Harry had finally taken Rita Skeeter’s rumors to heart, but there would be no way for her to keep up either of those without causing a mess.

She glanced at their shut door, as if their voices could carry all the way back to the common room. “You have to promise not to speak of it outside of these four walls,” she said, voice low, “You can’t tell _anyone_.”

Parvati looked startled, and even Lavender seemed reluctantly curious. They nodded. “Deal.”

She took a deep breath, “I’m dating Blaise Zabini.”

There was a beat of silence.

“_What?_” Parvati hissed.

“How in Merlin’s name did that happen?” Lavender asked.

Hermione fidgeted with her watch, spinning it around her wrist. “Well it’s only been a couple of months. We started talking after Slughorn’s Christmas party — he helped me get away from Cormac, actually — and then it just sort of...built from there.”

“That’s strange,” Lavender said, and there was still a bite to her words, “I didn’t peg him for someone who would go for Muggle-borns.”

“Yes, well he has,” Hermione snapped back, annoyed both by Lavender’s phrasing and her misreading of Blaise’s character.

“He _has_ seemed a lot less surly lately,” Parvati offered, clearly trying to keep the peace. “I never would have guessed...wow Hermione, he’s really attractive.”

Hermione flushed, “Yes — I mean, I’ve noticed.”

“So you’re keeping it a secret?” Lavender asked, and Hermione could tell she didn’t fully believe her. She didn’t care much, as long as she didn’t repeat it to anyone else.

“We have to,” she said, desperate to impress upon the two of them how serious this was. “You’ve seen how the Slytherins are. It could be dangerous for the both of us.”

“Not even Harry and Ron know?” Parvati asked, shooting a cautious glance at Lavender at the mention of Ron.

Hermione shook her head vigorously, “No. You can imagine their response. No one knows.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Hermione tried to remind herself that Lavender was freshly heartbroken, and forced herself not to huff in impatience at the hostility still infused into her voice. “I mean, you don’t think he’s using you, do you?”

“What on earth would he be using me for?”

“I don’t know…” Lavender shrugged, “You’re not exactly good for his image. Maybe he just likes sneaking around.”

“Lavender!” Parvati exclaimed, looking scandalized. Hermione’s stomach dropped.

“I don’t mean it like that!” she insisted, and for the first time since the beginning of their conversation, she sounded sincere. She bit her lip, looking down at her hands. “I just...I know what it’s like...” Hermione felt a surge of pity, thinking of how desperate Lavender had been to keep Ron’s interest.

“That’s not happening at all,” she said emphatically. She thought about the way Blaise always felt the need to hold her hand, about his smile, which felt special if only because he saved it for her. “I mean, sometimes it’s hard but it’s worth it. We can really be ourselves with each other, you know?”

Both Lavender and Parvati fell silent then, and when Hermione looked up she saw them looking at each other, an entire conversation passing through them in the space of a glance.

“What?”

“Nothing, just…” Lavender looked at her, her eyes very serious, “Are you in love with him?”

“What?” Hermione was shocked by the question. She could feel her face heat up, her heart begin to race. 

“You heard what she said,” Parvati looked just as convinced, her eyebrows raised in question.

She should’ve expected this, she realized, given who she was talking to. Perhaps the suddenness of it all was why she felt so flustered. “_Honestly_,” she said, “this isn’t a romance scenario in Witch Weekly.”

Lavender rolled her eyes as Parvati groaned.

“She can’t even admit it to herself,” Parvati said.

“Tragic,” sighed Lavender.

“Anyway,” Hermione said quickly, wanting to nip this conversation right in the bud. “I’ve just remembered I left something downstairs.”

And she hurried to the door, all thoughts of getting a book, of even waiting for Harry or Slughorn’s memory, gone from her mind.


	7. The Reveal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Blaise make a decision.

Hermione told Blaise about her conversation with Lavender and Parvati during the next morning’s break (conveniently leaving out their last question, which Hermione couldn’t even think about without immediately spiraling).

“It just sort of came out,” she said nervously. They stood together in the Owlery, Blaise attaching a letter to his mother to Adonis’s leg.

“So that’s why Patil kept shooting looks at me all through Defense,” he said idly. When he glanced at her, it was with an amused expression on his face.

Hermione groaned, “I made them swear not to say anything, but I didn’t think about how unsubtle they are.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Blaise said as they walked over to the nearest window. “From what you said, Brown is dealing with her own heartbreak. I’m sure they don’t want to make life harder for you.”

“I just feel bad,” she muttered, “I should never have said it, and if I had even been considering it — which I wasn’t — I should have told you first.”

Blaise shook his head, throwing his arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer to him. She was really surprised by how relaxed he was at the news. “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he said before pressing his lips to her hair, “There’s worse things that could happen than it getting out that I’m dating the prettiest and smartest girl in school.”

Hermione looked up at him, shocked by his words. But Blaise wasn’t paying attention, watching as Adonis took off from his perch, spreading his wings and flying off over the grounds.

He must not mean it, Hermione thought as she exited the Owlery first, getting lost in the crowd and letting people put space between her and Blaise as they both made their way to Flitwick’s classroom. Everything was so tense, so dangerous. There was no way he would want to mess up the chance he had at security.

She didn’t get much more time to wonder about Blaise’s motives before she found Harry and Ron in the back of the Charms classroom, flasks of vinegar set on the table before them. Once Flitwick started class and set them on their task — turning the vinegar to wine — Harry cast the _Muffliato_ spell and turned to them.

“So what happened?” Ron asked, his voice still low. Harry hadn’t come back to the common room until much later than he and Hermione had expected, and they’d ended up calling it a night long before he arrived.

“Well I...I got the memory,” Harry said, “And then I went to Dumbledore’s office…”

He launched into his tale from there, starting with Aragog’s funeral, including Slughorn’s teary-eyed drunken confession, and Harry and Dumbledore’s trip into his true memory, with details of what Horcruxes were. Hermione was already having trouble processing all of the information Harry had given them when he shared the last bit.

“Dumbledore wants me to come with him when he, you know, finds another one.”

There was a long silence. Hermione and Ron gaped at Harry, who looked both excited and nervous.

“Wow,” said Ron eventually, “Wow. You’re actually going to go with Dumbledore...and try and destroy...wow.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say. She had known that whatever Harry and Dumbledore were working on was big, but this all made it feel very real and unavoidable, a train coming for them whether they were ready or not.

“Ron, you’re making it snow,” she said instead, grabbing his wrist and tugging it down to stop the flakes starting to fall from the ceiling.

“Oh yeah, sorry,” Ron said, though he still looked in shock.

“What about you two?” Harry asked, “How did the night go otherwise?”

“Well Hermione disappeared for a while after you left,” Ron said, causing Hermione to tense up. Luckily, he sped past it to the real thing he wanted to tell Harry, “Lavender and I split up.”

Harry didn’t look all that surprised, glancing at a red-eyed Lavender across the room. “Ah,” he said.

Their conversation turned to Ron and Lavender, and then to Ginny and Dean, whose break up Hermione informed Harry of, in part to keep the conversation from veering too near where she had been last night, but also because she knew he would care, even as he tried to keep a straight face.

…

Spring was fully here, which meant that exams were just around the corner. While most people were only just starting to begin planning their study schedules, Hermione had drafted hers weeks ago, creating separate ones for Harry, Ron, and Blaise as well. Only Blaise had even looked at it, thanking her but telling her he had his own studying process already.

Surprisingly, Ginny began to join her, Ron, and Harry in the Great Hall at mealtimes. One day at breakfast, she slid onto the bench next to Ron as if she did this every day.

“I was up all night working on McGonagall’s practice test,” she said as she spooned porridge into her bowl, “I don’t think I’ll be able to think about anything but Transfiguration for months.”

“Well your O.W.L.s are quickly approaching,” Hermione said reasonably, exchanging a glance with Harry, who promptly looked away, his cheeks turning pink.

“Exactly!” Ginny exclaimed, “I have about six other subjects to study for! I wish McGonagall would be a bit more considerate.”

Harry and Ron offered her more sympathy than Hermione could muster, largely because they had barely gotten by for their own O.W.L.s the year before.

The school was buzzing with excitement, not only because of the return of Katie Bell, but also the final Quidditch match, Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw, was right around the corner. Harry and Ron seemed singularly focused on that, even as homework piled up and more threats of Voldemort lingered outside the walls.

Hermione was glad for a reason to distract herself, both from the looming decisions she knew she would soon have to make and her feelings for Blaise, which only seemed to be growing even stronger. She was sure he felt the same but was too afraid to outright ask, and was committed to making sure they kept their secret after her slip up.

She sat in the common room one evening, creating flashcards for Ancient Runes when Harry came sprinting through the portrait hole, taking the staircase to the boys’ dormitories two steps at a time, his footprints leaving water on the carpet. Hermione frowned as she watched him disappear and then clamber back down the steps and out of the common room once more. Ron came down a few moments later, looking confused.

“What was that about?” she asked as he sat down next to her.

“Dunno,” Ron said, “He just came up shouting at me about my Potions book and then took off.”

A bad feeling came over Hermione but she didn’t voice it. By the time she had gone down to the Great Hall with Ron for dinner, it was buzzing with news. Seamus and Dean hailed them as they approached the Gryffindor table.

“Is it true?” Seamus asked.

“Is what true?” Hermione asked.

“Seamus was in the bathroom earlier,” Dean said, his voice lowered, “Moaning Myrtle was flying around, wailing that Harry attacked Malfoy.”

“What?” Ron spluttered. The bad feeling settled firmly in Hermione’s stomach. As they sat and listened to Seamus’s account of Myrtle’s account, Hermione was sure it was about as close to the truth as they would get until they saw Harry, who still hadn’t turned up for dinner.

Once they returned to the common room, they found him sitting in a far corner, surrounded by stricken-looking members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

“What’s going on?” Ron demanded as they approached.

“Harry can’t play in the game Saturday,” Ginny told them as the rest of the team drifted away, a few of them shaking their heads in disappointment, “Snape’s given him detention.”

“_What?_” Ron shouted. Ginny shushed him, and he continued with a lower voice, “Harry, what happened mate?”

“I, er,” Harry looked shaken, his eyes wide behind his round glasses, “I cursed Malfoy.”

Ron relaxed, “Good one.”

“No, Ron,” Hermione shook her head. Her intuition was telling her this wasn’t just a regular duel between school enemies, “Harry what did you do?”

He told the three of them, his voice fighting hard to stay steady. About how he had been on his way to dinner, but had seen on the Marauder’s Map that Malfoy was in the bathroom with Myrtle. How he had made a detour to see what he was up to. How Malfoy had attacked him the minute he saw him. And how he had used a curse called _Sectumsempra_, one he had found in the Half-Blood Prince’s copy of _Advanced Potion-Making,_ which had cut Malfoy like a knife.

“If Snape hadn’t have—” Harry gulped, “I think he might have…”

Ginny was watching Harry with a soft kind of sympathy on her face. Ron looked as if he had been hit over the head with a Beater’s bat. Hermione felt a strange sort of vindication, mixed in with her horror.

“I won’t say ‘I told you so,’” she said, sitting in the armchair across from him.

“Leave it, Hermione,” Ron said angrily, snapping out of his shock.

But she couldn’t help herself, “I told you there was something wrong with that Prince person. And I was right, wasn’t I?”

“No, I don’t think you were,” said Harry stubbornly.

Hermione gaped at him, “Harry, how can you still stick up for that book when that spell—”

“Will you stop harping on about the book!” Harry shouted, “The Prince only copied it out! It’s not like he was advising anyone to use it! For all we know, he was making note of something that could be used against him!”

She couldn’t believe he actually believed that. There was no way a person who wrote a spell like that could not be intending to use it. But whether he believed it or not, Harry wasn’t backing down, his jaw was set, even as his eyes were filled with remorse.

“Are you telling me that you’re going to go back—”

“And get the book? Yeah I am,” said Harry, “Listen, without the Prince I’d never have won the Felix Felicis. I’d never have known how to save Ron from poisoning, I’d never have—”

“—got a reputation for Potions brilliance you don’t deserve,” this wasn’t the point, and it wasn’t why Hermione was angry, but it added to her disgust of her best friend, who had done something so horrible and was being incredibly defensive about it.

“Give it a rest, Hermione!” Ginny cut in. Harry looked up at her, astonished. “By the sound of it Malfoy was trying to use an Unforgivable Curse, you should be glad Harry had something good up his sleeve!”

“Well, of course I’m glad Harry wasn’t cursed!” Hermione was hurt that she would even imply that, “But you can’t call that Sectumsempra spell good, Ginny, look where it’s landed him! And I’d have thought, seeing what this has done to your chances in the match—”

“Oh, don’t start acting as though you understand Quidditch,” Ginny interrupted, rolling her eyes, “You’ll only embarrass yourself.”

Hermione could feel her anger reaching a boiling point, as Harry and Ron gaped at the two of them. She pushed herself up, readjusting her bag on her shoulder and turning away from them. She looked down at her watch as she marched through the portrait hole and back into the large castle. She needed to meet Blaise in a few minutes anyway.

She could feel her anger bubbling even as she got further from Gryffindor Tower. All of them were on her last nerve: Harry for defending actions that were clearly reprehensible, Ron for not seeing any problem, and Ginny for coddling Harry when he should be held accountable for his actions.

She found Blaise at the Clock Tower, looking out from the balcony overlooking the Great Lake. She could feel her anger simmer at the sight of his back, and she hurried over, sidling up next to him and leaning on the banister, touching her shoulder to his.

“Hi,” she said.

“How are you?”

“A little annoyed, to be honest,” Hermione said. She paused a moment, biting her lip. “Have you heard about Malfoy?”

Blaise’s jaw tightened for a moment before he nodded, “Pansy’s real cut up about it. She went up to the hospital wing after dinner.”

There was something in his voice, an accusatory tone, that made Hermione’s irritation suddenly rise.

“Harry was just trying to defend himself,” she found herself saying.

Blaise looked down at her in disbelief, “You aren’t serious. Hermione, he cut him open.”

“I know that!” Hermione’s voice echoed over the grounds. She lowered her voice, not wanting to alert the entire school to their conversation, “It’s just, you’re biased against Harry and—”

“And you’re not biased?” Blaise shook his head, “Wrong is wrong.”

She crossed her arms, “So what Malfoy’s doing isn’t wrong?”

“I never said that,” he responded, annoyance flashing through his face, “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

Hermione stopped. She hadn’t come here to defend Harry, and the last thing she wanted was to get into another argument with Blaise.

She sighed, “I’m sorry, you’re right. I don’t know what I’m doing, I just had a row with Ginny because she was defending him. I’m just frustrated.”

He seemed to relax a bit, though still he looked cautious, “What’s frustrating you?”

“I don’t know, just Ginny has been popping up a lot since she broke up with Dean. Which is fine, she’s my friend, but…” Hermione hadn’t been able to fully articulate the resentment she felt when Ginny stepped in for Harry, but suddenly the answer came to her, her foggy feelings becoming clearer as she said them out loud. “Harry and Ginny clearly have feelings for each other. They’re only friends right now, but honestly it’s only a matter of time, and I think I’m frustrated because they can express that openly.”

Hermione stared at Blaise’s shoes, afraid of what he would say to that. They’d had an agreement, one Hermione had thought she was okay with. He shifted his weight a bit.

“I, er, actually wanted to talk to you about that,” he said.

Hermione’s head shot up, “What do you mean?”

Blaise glanced out at the sky. He reached up to scratch his nose and Hermione suddenly realized that he was nervous. “Well...what if we stopped hiding?”

Her mouth dropped open, but then she shut it, scrutinizing him. He was still fidgeting, his hands now clasped together behind his back, lips pursed as he waited for her response.

“Really?”

Blaise shrugged, but the look in his deep brown eyes was intense, the same soft look she had seen during their date in the Astronomy Tower. “I don’t really like that other people are dictating how and when I see you.”

Hermione forced back the hope she could feel building. She had to stay realistic. “Are you absolutely sure? I mean, have you really looked at all of the risks—?”

Blaise took a step closer to her, determination in his eyes. “‘Course I have,” he said. “You think I would suggest anything this big without thinking it through?”

“No, of course not,” she said, and her hope began to steadily rise.

“Good,” he said with a smirk, and he took her face in his hands. “Because I care about you a lot. I wouldn’t risk anything like this if I didn’t.”

At those words, happiness spread through her entire body, burning out any frustration or anger she had left. “I care about you a lot too,” she whispered.

Blaise’s smile was soft and tender, and his hands tightened around her face as he leaned in, kissing her gently. Hermione’s eyes fluttered closed and she grabbed a fistful of his robes, pulling him closer. But then Blaise pulled back a moment, sliding his fingers along the back of her neck and pressing his forehead to hers. “That’s a relief,” he murmured, and Hermione felt her mouth spread into a wide grin, her mind calming and her worries falling away.

…

Hermione sat in the Great Hall that Saturday across from Ron and Ginny, her stomach in knots. As Ginny tried her best to force Ron to get something in his stomach before the big Quidditch match, Hermione broke the scone on her plate into smaller and smaller pieces, until only a pile of crumbs sat before her.

“Maybe we should just go and change,” Ginny suggested to her brother, glancing at Hermione as if she would have any suggestions, “Might help to get you in the right mindset.”

“Change, yeah,” Ron muttered, his face a pale shade of green. Hermione felt just as nauseous.

“I’ll go up to the stands in a bit,” she told them as they pushed themselves up from the table. She tried to keep her voice steady, hopefully even cheerful, “Good luck!”

Ginny smiled, though it seemed more like a grimace as she pushed Ron ahead of her and the two disappeared from the Hall.

Soon the rest of the school began to file out of the Great Hall and onto the sunny grounds. Hermione forced herself up, telling herself she was being silly, that there was nothing to be nervous about.

There were only a few people milling about the entrance hall, waiting for friends to arrive from breakfast or their common rooms. Hermione stood to the left of the door, turning the watch around her wrist and trying to convince herself not to bolt up to Gryffindor Tower and forget the entire thing.

Blaise appeared at the doorway to the Great Hall, tall and lanky, a small Ravenclaw flag held tightly in his hand. His jaw was clenched as his eyes scanned the entrance hall, but it relaxed once his eyes fell on her. A soft smile spread across his lips.

The knots in Hermione’s stomach loosened then, and she grinned back as he approached, forgetting about the people around them.

“Are you ready?” she asked him as he reached out, lacing his fingers through hers.

Blaise nodded, “Let’s do it.”

He pulled her out onto the sunny grounds, ignoring the rising whispers surrounding them. Even as they got closer to the stands and more people began to notice, Hermione felt fortified with Blaise’s hand in hers. She glanced down at the flag in his other hand.

“What’s _that _for?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at the blue and bronze floating in the gentle breeze.

Blaise smiled slyly, “Just because I’m with _you_ doesn’t mean I want Gryffindor to win.”

His grin widened at Hermione’s scowl and he tightened his grasp around her hand, pulling her around clusters of students, more than a few of which did double-takes as they passed.

They made it to the top of the stairs without a hitch, though Hermione had to admit all of the eyes were starting to get to her. Parvati and Lavender were sitting a few rows down from where Hermione and Blaise eventually sat themselves, the two glancing back at them with knowing grins before huddling together to discuss. Neville’s eyes were wide as saucers at the sight of Blaise sliding his arm around Hermione’s shoulders. Even Ernie Macmillan and Susan Bones were craning their necks to get a better look.

Hermione’s eyes found Pansy Parkinson’s. The girl was surrounded by Slytherin girls up at the very top of the stands, her face twisted in disgust.

“You okay?” Blaise murmured as more people found seats around them.

Hermione nodded, tearing her eyes away from Pansy and her gang. She rested her head on Blaise’s shoulder. “It’s just...more than I thought it would be,” she said quietly.

Blaise rubbed her arm, “The game’s about to start. They’ll all be distracted in a minute.”

As he spoke, the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw teams began to file onto the field to the rambunctious cheers of the school. Hermione sat up straighter, eyes scanning the field as the players took off, headed to their positions. Ginny, standing in for Harry as Captain, shook hands with the Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain. Blaise shook his Ravenclaw flag in Hermione’s face, snickering when she slapped it away.

Harry and Ron had always assumed Hermione didn’t care about Quidditch because she was abysmal on a broomstick, but she had always found the sport quite exciting. Even without their (unfortunately) fearless leader, the Gryffindor team was clearly on top of their game.

“There’s Katie Bell with the Quaffle,” Luna’s dreamy voice floated across the pitch, “She’s been gone for quite a long time. I’m sure her recovery is due to the Fluttering Flashbanger, which has been known to reverse the effects of curses and also grant it’s recipient the ability to sing. I wonder if she would be willing to perform for us—”

“—Ten-zero to Gryffindor!” Professor McGonagall cut in, after Katie chucked the Quaffle past the Ravenclaw Keeper and through the left hoop. The stands erupted with excitement.

Katie’s return to the team was seamless, she, Dean, and Demelza flowing in perfect sync. Even Ron, bolstered by Gryffindor’s early lead, was doing well, executing a brilliant save after Michael Corner attempted a feint. Ginny zoomed around the pitch, her eyes watching Ravenclaw Seeker Cho Chang and searching for the Snitch.

Hermione spent the last half of the match on her feet, pulled into the excitement of the stands. She kept her hand wrapped tightly around Blaise’s, who watched sitting down, much less invested in the outcome, but occasionally taunting her whenever Ravenclaw made a good play.

“Oh, it looks like Chang has spotted the Snitch! I do hope she gets it, Ravenclaw hasn’t gotten to win the Quidditch Cup in quite some time — oh, I don’t think I’m allowed to say that, sorry Professor.”

Cho was zig-zagging through the Gryffindor players, skirting around Peakes and ducking under Dean, the tiny winged ball glittering just ahead of her. Hermione watched with bated breath, searching the field for Ginny, her hand squeezing the life out of Blaise’s.

Just when it looked as if Cho might take the game for Ravenclaw, Ginny shot up from below, snatching the Snitch out of the air.

“Goodness!” Luna said, “Ginny Weasley has caught the Snitch!”

Hermione’s voice was lost in the roar rising from the stands. She turned to Blaise, a grin across her face. She half-expected him to at least pretend to glare at Ravenclaw’s loss, but he smiled back, pulling her into him and wrapping his arms tight around her. “Congrats,” he said under the noise, before sneaking a quick kiss on her cheek.

…

By the time Hermione got to Gryffindor Tower, after reluctantly leaving Blaise in the entrance hall, the party was in full swing. Ron was running around the common room, the silver Quidditch Cup clutched in his hands, while Ginny and Demelza danced in the center of the room, arms raised above their heads. Parvati and Lavender intercepted Hermione at the table laden with food and butterbeer that Seamus had managed to procure from the kitchens. 

“You didn’t tell us you and Zabini were going _public_!” Parvati said, sounding betrayed.

“Oh…” Hermione didn’t know what to say. It had genuinely never crossed Hermione’s mind to tell them. 

“You two are so adorable,” Lavender fawned, though Hermione sensed a hint of jealousy in her voice.

“Er, thanks?” Hermione said, her eyes darting around the room for a reason to leave the conversation. Her gaze fell on Ron, who had just finished posing for Colin Creevey’s camera. His eyes found hers in that same moment and seemed to harden with determination. Hermione’s stomach turned as he shook the Creevey brothers off, making his way towards her, the silver cup still clutched in his hand.

Lavender let out a high squeak as she noticed his approach, and pulled Parvati away before they could further interrogate Hermione about Blaise.

“Congratulations,” Hermione said, trying not to sound nervous as Ron came nearer, reaching past her to grab a custard cream and stuffing it in his mouth.

“Fanks,” he said through the food. He swallowed and then frowned at her. “I heard something funny after the match.”

“Oh?” Hermione was sure her voice was higher than normal, and knew she was giving herself away. She told herself to calm down; she had prepared for this.

“Yeah, you—” he was cut off by another roar of excitement, and both he and Hermione looked to the portrait hole, where Harry was being pulled into the room, surrounded by celebrating Gryffindors. The seriousness in Ron’s eyes were gone, and he bounded over to Harry quickly, brandishing the cup in his face.

“We won!” he shouted at his best friend, who looked stunned, “We won! Four hundred and fifty to a hundred and forty! We won!”

Hermione hung back, wary of joining in and resparking Ron’s memory, but she grinned at the glee on Harry’s face. His eyes scanned the room, and for a moment she worried that he too had heard something about her and Blaise on his way back up to the tower from Snape’s detention, but his eyes fell instead on Ginny, who was running towards him, red hair flying behind her. She threw her arms around him and without hesitation Harry kissed her.

The room suddenly turned quiet. Hermione grinned as a few whistles flew across the room. Ron’s face dropped in shock, but after a long moment he seemed to come to, nodding in acceptance. As Harry and Ginny left the common room, Hermione turned to slip up to her room, hoping that people would find what had just happened more interesting than her own relationship.


	8. The Backlash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The students of Hogwarts react to the news of Hermione and Blaise's relationship.

“ZABINI?” Ron exclaimed, the expression on his face a mixture of confusion and disgust. He was sitting on one of the couches in the common room, looking awkwardly stiff beside Harry, who had his arm slung around Ginny’s shoulders. Hermione sat on the floor in front of them, Crookshanks in her arms.

“Yes, Ron,” Hermione sighed. She had been nervous about broaching the subject with them mere moments ago, but something about Ron’s predictable response quickly turned her anxiety to annoyance.

“When did this happen? _How_ did this happen?”

Hermione grimaced, scratching Crookshanks’ head just between his ears. She felt oddly self-conscious, as if the sunlight filtering through the window along the wall behind her was shining only on her. “It’s sort of a long story.”

“Doesn’t he hate Muggles and Muggle-borns?”

She rolled her eyes at this, “Yes. It was one of the main reasons I became interested in him. Come on, Ron, don’t you think I, of all people, would have thought this through?”

“I don’t know,” Ron said, looking doubtful, “People make mistakes. You know he’s friends with Malfoy right?”

“Being someone’s roommate doesn’t make them your friend.”

But Ron wasn’t listening. “He could be feeding Malfoy information on Harry!” he exclaimed with an air of superiority, as if he had caught something Hermione hadn’t.

“Well seeing as we almost never talk about Harry…”

If anything, this was more exhausting than it was scary. Hermione wondered if she had avoided telling her friends for her own sanity rather than her fear of losing them. Ron sat back now, folding his freckled arms across his chest.

“I still don’t like it,” he said with a scowl.

“It’s not really up to you, is it?” Ginny said, lifting her head from Harry’s shoulder. Hermione glanced at her in surprise; she had assumed Ginny would be as wary of Blaise, if not as upset as her brother.

Ron sputtered, clearly just as shocked by his sister’s words. “Well what about you, Harry? What do you think about this?”

Harry was the most relaxed of the four, but when he looked up at Ron now, a flash of discomfort came over him. He shrugged, “I dunno. I think it’s fine.”

Hermione gaped at him. “You do?” For someone who had been obsessed with all things Malfoy, she was sure he would side with Ron, sure he would be ready to come up with conspiracy theories of the entire sixth year Slytherin class’s master plan to win the war for Voldemort one homework assignment at a time.

“I sort of had a feeling something was up with you anyway,” he said, “I’m just glad you’re happy.”

Heat rose on Hermione’s cheeks, but she grinned, “Thanks.”

The rest of the school was much harder to deal with, as she learned on Monday. While most of the student body didn’t seem to care when Hermione and Blaise held hands on the way to Potions past petty gossip, more than a few Gryffindors were suspicious of their relationship, and the Slytherins were downright hostile. Pansy Parkinson, in particular, seemed to take it personally.

While she and other Slytherin girls had often taunted Hermione in the halls and before class, now it was much more pointed, Pansy’s anger at Hermione’s gall to date a pure-blood not so veiled underneath.

It wasn’t much better when she and Blaise were together. On top of the usual anti-Muggle-born slurs, they seemed to at least notice that Hermione and Blaise were also both Black, which resulted in their resorting to racial insults as well.

“If you wanted someone with your _background_, you could’ve at least picked someone prettier,” Pansy taunted outside of Defense Against the Dark Arts, her nose wrinkled, “At least Brown knows how to tame her hair.”

“Just ignore it,” Hermione said under her breath as Blaise’s eyes flashed in anger. She pulled him into the classroom before he or anyone else could say anything more.

“Ignoring it won’t make it go away,” he said in a low voice, his eyes still tracking Pansy across the room as he pulled out a chair for her. They had had this conversation more than a few times since the teasing began. “I’m not just going to let them continue to say foul things about you.”

“It’ll die down,” Hermione insisted, sitting in the proffered chair. She had had more experience in this matter than he had, given that he often kept to himself as a rule and she was best friends with one of the most scrutinized people in the school.

Blaise sank down into the chair beside her with a heavy sigh, taking up her hand again. His face softened as he leaned forward, reaching out to fluff up the puff she had piled on top of her head that morning. Hermione felt a shiver run up her spine. “I disagree. But we’ll try it your way.”

And so through it all, Blaise did his best to remain stoic, never giving any outside indication that he noticed the nasty comments other than regularly checking in with Hermione to make sure she was okay.

“I’m fine,” she reassured him one morning after Millicent Bulstrode called her her first ‘Mudblood’ of the day. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

Blaise frowned at her comment, but it was true. The comments and bullying weren’t pleasant, but she had been humiliated by a teacher more than once and sent hate mail that had physically harmed her. 

One of her biggest worries about going public with Blaise had been Harry and Ron’s reactions, and they not only had accepted it, but had taken to defending her in the halls, to the point where she would have to prevent them from hexing Slytherins in retaliation (Harry, in particular, didn’t need any more detentions).

“They can’t just talk to you like that,” Ron growled, as Pansy stalked away after having suggested Hermione had used a love potion to “trap” Blaise, “Even if this thing with Zabini is mad.”

Eventually, even Blaise reached his wits end.

They were walking to Charms hand in hand, trailing behind Harry and Ron, who were awkwardly pretending to give them space (though both kept glancing back at them more than a few times). Suddenly, Hermione felt the familiar weight of her bag drop, books, vials, and parchment spilling out in the middle of the crowded corridor.

Hermione whirled around as a peal of laughter echoed behind them. A group of Slytherins were a few feet away, Nott stowing his wand back in his pocket, nudging one of Hermione’s scrolls away from Pansy with his foot, disgust on his face.

“Careful, could be contaminated,” Nott said to her, loud enough that the other students passing by could hear. Some ignored the scene, while others slowed down, faces ranging from wariness to curiosity.

Hermione glowered at Nott before looking back to Harry and Ron, ready to force their wand arms down. As she did, Blaise nudged her gently behind him before sliding his hand out of hers. She looked up at his face, surprised to see him showing his anger, a sneer twisting his features as he glared down at his classmates.

“That’s enough,” he said, his voice cold.

Pansy cackled as fury crossed Nott’s face. He stepped up to Blaise, his knuckles white as he clenched his hands into fists. “What are you going to do about it, blood traitor?”

Blaise’s fingers flexed and Hermione jumped forward, grabbing his hand before he could reach for his wand. “Blaise,” she whispered, placing her other hand on his chest. She could feel his heart racing. 

He looked down at her, and his anger faltered a moment as he remembered their agreement. He rested his free hand over hers on his chest and said, “You’re right. Sorry.”

“What’s wrong?” Pansy shouted from behind Nott, “Afraid of what your mother would say if she found out you were fighting one of your own for a Mudblood?”

Blaise’s eyes flashed again at the clear threat, but he didn’t move. “I expect not nearly as afraid as _your_ mum was when she found out your father got all your money snatched by the goblins.”

A hush fell across the hall as Pansy’s mouth dropped open. Hermione could hear Ron snickering behind her; the news of the Parkinsons’ financial woes had broken earlier that week — something to do with insider trading and consorting with Death Eaters that had prompted Gringotts to lock down their vault. A look of distress passed over Pansy’s face as Nott stepped up to Blaise, plunging his hand back in his robes for his wand. Blaise moved Hermione behind him again, reaching for his own wand.

There was a _bang _and Nott fell to the ground, a strange green substance oozing from his nose. Hermione whipped her head around.

“_Harry!”_

He shrugged, slipping his wand away. “Sorry, slipped.”

Pansy quickly pulled Nott to his feet and hurried him away, their gang following close by.

The hall began to empty as the tension broke. Hermione took a deep breath, pulling out her wand and Summoning her things into a neat pile before her.

Blaise watched the Slytherins disappear down the hall before reaching over to slip Hermione’s torn bag from her shoulder. “_Reparo_,” he muttered, pointing his wand at the rip, which repaired itself quickly.

Hermione hovered her things back into her bag and Blaise helped to fit it back onto her shoulder before taking her hand and pulling her back after her friends. They were quiet the rest of the way to Charms, Blaise lost in thought. Even though she had told him not to, Hermione couldn’t help but feel happy about the way he had stood up for her. Just before they entered Flitwick’s classroom, she planted a kiss on his cheek, prompting a startled smile to spread across his face.

…

After the altercation in the Charms corridor, the whispers lessened, especially when they were together. When Hermione was on her own a few would become bold, but she wasn’t worried about a few overeager Slytherins. Instead, she tried to focus on the good parts of her relationship, namely all of the time she could now spend with Blaise without worrying about who saw.

They spent one warm afternoon outside, studying under the beech tree near the lake. Blaise was leaning back against the bark of the tree, squinting at his Transfiguration notes as he tried to make out the words in the shifting shade of the leaves above them. Hermione lay on her stomach beside him, rereading _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6_ at top speed.

She looked up at the end of the section on the Doubling Charm, turning her head to look past Blaise at the glittering lake. A group of third years had taken to skipping rocks, ankle deep in the water. Terry Boot was taking a break from his own studies by throwing pieces of a sandwich into the water for the giant squid to enjoy. Hermione spotted Harry and Ginny walking together hand in hand. Harry caught her eye and waved sheepishly, surely feeling guilty — as he should — that he was distracting Ginny from studying for her O.W.L.s. Hermione merely raised an eyebrow and nodded to him.

She glanced over at Blaise then, and was surprised to see him looking past her, distress crossing his face. It was brief, but quite noticeable just before he smoothed out his expression, resting back on disinterest. She turned to look behind her, noticing a group of sixth year Slytherins stepping out of the castle, Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott among them.

“Everything okay?” she asked, nudging his leg with her shoulder.

Blaise’s dark eyes seemed calm, but a muscle in his jaw popped out briefly before he murmured, “I’m fine.”

Hermione frowned. She realized then that she hadn’t been as vigilant in watching Blaise’s mood as she should have been. Things had gotten easier for her since he’d defended her, but it occurred to her that it didn’t mean the same had happened for him, especially after he called Pansy out like that in front of everyone. She pushed herself up so that she was now sitting cross-legged, facing him.

“How is it with your housemates?” she asked softly, leaning on his knee.

He shrugged, looking down at the parchment on his lap. “Most of them aren’t talking to me. Theo’s said some nasty things and Crabbe and Goyle posture a lot, but they won’t do anything.”

“And Malfoy?” He had always been the loudest in his anti-Muggle-born stance, but he had been strangely silent, at least in public.

“He hasn’t really said anything,” Blaise said, still pretending to be interested in Hermione’s meticulous additions to his notes on Elemental Transfiguration, “But he hasn’t been saying much at all lately.”

“So it’s mostly just Pansy.”

“No, she’s left me alone since that time before Charms.” Blaise paused a moment, pain flashing through his eyes, “My mum found out.”

“_What?_” Hermione’s voice was louder than she meant it to be, and she lowered it quickly at the sight of discomfort on Blaise’s face. “How did that happen?”

“Dunno,” he said, “Someone must have told her. I got a letter from her a few days ago…” He spoke in a detached sort of way, as if he were commenting on the weather, but Hermione could tell how hard he was taking it. “I was planning to tell her, actually. Just...not like this.”

She hesitated before asking, “What did she say?”

Blaise looked out towards the lake, the sadness clear in his eyes. “She’s not happy. Thinks I’m messing with my social standing for a ‘sordid fling’.”

“Have you responded yet?”

He shook his head, looking back down at his notes.

Hermione took a deep breath before reaching out to take his hand. She felt for him, hated that she was the reason his mother was upset, that she had come between them. She didn’t like seeing him so hurt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t — you never mentioned it.”

“I know it’s nothing compared to what you’re going through with this,” Blaise said, “If I’m being honest, I knew this could happen. I don’t want you to worry about it.”

Hermione frowned, “That’s not fair. I appreciate the consideration, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to keep things from me.”

He finally looked at her head on, eyes shining as his jaw flexed and relaxed again. “I don’t want to keep things from you.”

Hermione leaned forward then, keeping their eyes locked. “Then don’t,” she whispered.

Blaise closed the gap, kissing the tip of her nose instead of her mouth, causing Hermione to giggle.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t sharing,” he said seriously, “I guess I’m just not very used to it.”

Hermione gave his hand a squeeze, “We’ll work on it together.”

In her mind, her gears were already turning. Maybe Blaise had been right. Maybe ignoring it wouldn’t make it all go away.

…

She quickly discerned that it was Pansy who’d told Blaise’s mother about their relationship. It was no secret that she was one of the most offended by them, and Blaise embarrassing her in front of the school must have been the final straw. In a way, Hermione was glad Pansy was so obvious — it made it easier to come up with a way to put a stop to the bullying once and for all.

She got her chance one afternoon in the library, as she was once again perusing the records section. It wasn’t really studying, but she had built in the time to look through old copies of the _Daily Prophet_ into her schedule, just after Defense Against the Dark Arts and before she was to help Ginny structure her Care of Magical Creatures study plan.

Hermione was looking through an old, yellowing copy of the _Prophet_ when a picture jumped out at her. The girl was around her age, skinny with heavy eyebrows and a long face. Underneath the picture read the caption: _Eileen Prince, Captain of the Hogwarts Gobstones Team_. Feeling a surge of excitement and vindication, she snatched the paper and turned away, ready to show Harry what she had found.

She collided straight into someone else, who let out a cry of indignation and stumbled back.

Malice flashed through Pansy Parkinson’s eyes, “You’d better watch yourself Granger,” she hissed as she straightened her clothes, “Now I’ll have to burn these robes.”

Hermione smiled. She didn’t know what had come over her — maybe she was bolstered by the thought that she was right about the Half-Blood Prince. “Oh, I’m _so_ sorry, Parkinson, perhaps I could help you with that right now?”

Pansy blinked in surprise. She was used to Hermione rolling her eyes and walking away, or else calming a red-faced Ron or stony-faced Harry before walking away. But she wasn’t going to walk away now. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Hermione wanted to stay calm; she didn’t want to give Pansy the satisfaction of seeing her upset. She fingered her wand, stepping closer to the girl. She didn’t _really_ plan on setting Pansy on fire — that was ridiculously extreme — but Pansy didn’t know that. The Slytherin girl took a half-step back.

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re mad too,” Pansy spat, though there was a hint of fear on her face, “I suppose all that filth in your blood—”

“Yes, we all know I’m a Mudblood,” Hermione rolled her eyes, “Honestly after six years, the most original thing you’ve done might have been writing to Blaise’s mother.”

Pansy recovered from her shock quickly, “Well why shouldn’t she know her son is a blood traitor?”

Hermione shook her head, slipping her wand from her pocket. “That, right there. I won’t be having that anymore.”

Pansy backed into the shelves, her face fighting between her panic and her desire to still seem like she was in control. Hermione lifted her wand, resting the tip on the girl’s collar.

“You leave me and Blaise alone, do you hear me? We’ve done nothing to you, but I will if you keep bothering us. That includes in the Slytherin common room. I’m sure you realize word will get back to me.”

She turned away before Pansy could respond, leaving the girl in the middle of the records section of the library, the collar of her robes slightly singed and smoking.

…

Hermione sat with Blaise in a bright courtyard, holding open her worn copy of _A History of Magic_. She was turned to face him so that he couldn’t see the contents of the book, her knee pressed lightly against the outside of his thigh.

“What is the oldest known wizarding settlement in Great Britain?” she asked.

“Puddlemere.”

She shut the book, impressed. Blaise hadn’t stumbled on a single answer. “You know I’m one for over-studying, but I think you’re truly ready for Binns next week.”

“Thanks,” Blaise said, shuffling Hermione’s Ancient Runes flashcards in his hands, “I wish I didn’t have to take this class. I feel like I have to teach myself everything.”

There was an underlying tension to his words, and Hermione knew he was thinking about his mother, who not only was making him take History of Magic, but had also failed to respond to Blaise’s most recent letter.

“I’m happy to help,” she said breezily, “Okay, just one last time through those cards. I want to be absolutely sure I’ve got them all.”

Blaise flashed her a knowing smile and looked down at the cards. Even though he had no idea what was going on with the translations, he was good at quizzing her, and patient when she insisted on checking the correct answers herself.

Once they finished they packed up, but made no immediate moves to leave. Hermione scooted closer to Blaise, nuzzling her head into the space between his neck and shoulder.

“Hey,” he said as he wound one of his fingers into her curls, “You don’t happen to have seen Pansy recently, have you?”

It had been two days since their conversation in the library, and since then there had been mostly silence.

Hermione shrugged, “In passing. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, just...she seems pretty nervous about even being in the same room as me.”

“Does she?”

“Well, you know how she is. She sort of pretends like I’m beneath her notice on her way out the door.”

“Hmm,” Hermione said, trying to force her face to stay neutral. 

“That’s it?” he asked, shifting slightly to get a better look at her.

“What? I’m happy things are settling down.”

His eyes were narrowed, scrutinizing her for a moment before he shook his head, relaxing back into the bench. “Whatever, Granger.”

Soon, the sun began to set, the light shadows at the edges of the courtyard becoming darker and longer.

“I’ll see you later?” Blaise asked softly at the end of a dimly lit corridor. It was here that they would part, Hermione making her way up to her common room and he down to his. He ducked his head down towards her, resting his hand along her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheek.

Her stomach swooped at his touch, and she nodded. “Later.”

Blaise leaned down further, his lips at her ear. “Thanks for sticking up for me.”

Hermione’s heart sped up as his warm breath tickled her ear. She stopped breathing for a moment, but the smirk on his face as he pulled away brought her back. She grinned slyly, “Of course.” She pushed up on her toes, planting a kiss directly on his lips, and turned away with a parting wink, skirting around two giggling fourth years and hurrying up the stairs towards Gryffindor Tower.

She found Ron in the common room, watching the fire from the couch.

“What’s up?” she asked, plopping down next to him and sliding her bag off of her shoulder, her mind still on Blaise’s smile, his amusement at her antics.

“Harry’s with Professor Dumbledore.”

His words pierced through her mind, blocking out everything else. She sat up, “Wait, does that mean..._he’s found one_?”

“I don’t know,” Ron said, “It didn’t say in the note.”

Hermione’s mind was going a mile a minute. “Ron—”

The portrait hole opened and they turned to see Harry hurrying through. Hermione stood.

“What does he want?” she demanded, before taking him in. He looked harried and upset. “Harry, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said shortly as he rushed past them. Hermione and Ron exchanged a startled glance.

Moments later he was back, the Invisibility Cloak thrown over his shoulder, a piece of spare parchment and a pair of balled up socks in his hands.

“I’ve got to be quick,” he rushed, “Dumbledore told me to get the cloak. He’s found one and he’s asked me to come with him—”

“But where—” Ron started as Hermione clapped her hand over her mouth, a mixture of dread and excitement filling her.

“No, listen,” Harry said with a shake of his head, “While I was on my way there I ran into Trelawney. She all but told me Malfoy was celebrating in the Room of Requirement. I tried to tell Dumbledore, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Hermione had a thousand questions, but she tried her best to keep them to herself until Harry was done.

“So you see what this means?” he was saying, “Dumbledore won’t be here tonight, so Malfoy’s going to have a clear shot at whatever he’s up to. _No, listen to me!_” he snapped as Hermione — unable to help herself — started to interrupt. “I know it was him.”

He shoved the Marauder’s Map into Hermione’s startled hands, “You’ve got to watch him and Snape too. Use the Galleons to alert the D.A., they still work right?”

“But Harry,” she pushed through, “Dumbledore wouldn’t just leave the school unprotected—”

“He trusts Snape,” Harry said, a look of disgust crossing his face as he said it, “If he’s involved, he’ll know what Dumbledore’s protection is, and how to avoid it — but he won’t be expecting you lot to be watching, will he?”

“Harry—” she began again. She was trying her best to clamp down on her fear, to find the logic in what he was saying.

“I haven’t got time to argue,” he insisted, “Take this as well—” he passed Ron the socks, “It’s the Felix Felicis. Share it between yourselves and Ginny too. Say good-bye to her for me. I’d better go—”

“No!” Hermione said finally, as Ron slowly unwrapped the bottle of luck, “You need it for yourself, who knows what you’re going to be facing?”

“I’ll be fine, I’ll be with Dumbledore,” Harry said, “I want to know you lot are okay.” Hermione eyes were starting to sting, the gravity of what Harry was about to do pressing down on her. “Don’t look like that, Hermione, I’ll see you later…” he gave them a fleeting smile before turning and hurrying off, vaulting back through the portrait hole.

Hermione turned to Ron as the tapestry closed. He looked dumbstruck, Harry’s old socks and the half-empty bottle of Felix Felicis in his hands. This was it. If Harry was right and Malfoy had succeeded in whatever it was he had been working towards all year, they had to stop him. Hermione swallowed down her fear and doubt. She didn’t need it right now — she needed a plan.

“Find your sister,” she told Ron, “Bring her here. I’ll go grab my D.A. coin.”

It took her awhile to find it once she made it up to the dormitory. Neither Parvati nor Lavender were there, which she lamented if only because it would have been easier to tell them what was happening in person. She had to clear out half of her trunk — littering her side of the room with Muggle clothes, books, and spare notebooks — before she found the small coin, which she had charmed into a communication device for Dumbledore’s Army last year.

She thundered back down the stairs, finding Ron and Ginny near the portrait hole.

“Here,” Ron said, passing her the bottle of Felix Felicis, which had noticeably less liquid inside since Harry had given it to him, “Take the last of it.”

Hermione grabbed the bottle and tilted it back into her mouth. She felt warmth spread through her, but it couldn’t blot out the growing anxiety in her mind.

“I think we should go to the Room of Requirement,” she told them, “I’ll set the coordinates on the coin, and whoever sees it will meet us there.”

“Good idea,” Ginny said, pushing the portrait open.

Hermione took a steadying breath as she stepped out into the corridor. For a moment she thought about Blaise, down in the Slytherin common room. She got an urge to contact him, but it was fleeting — if Harry was right and Malfoy really was going to attack the school tonight, the last thing she wanted was for Blaise to get caught in the middle of it, especially when there was no more lucky potion to go around.

She led the way to the Room of Requirement, trying not to worry that no one would come to help, that the Felix would run out too soon, that Harry was in fatal danger without any liquid luck. Instead, she thought about what needed to be done. _Find Malfoy, find Snape_. They had to protect the castle.


	9. A Difficult Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Blaise deal with the oncoming threat of Lord Voldemort.

“Here, Hermione, you should sit down.”

Several hours later, Hermione moved to the chair Remus Lupin had just vacated, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Harry had just left the hospital wing with Hagrid and Professor McGonagall. She felt awful, her body unhurt, but her spirit broken. They had failed. Not only had they allowed Malfoy and the Death Eaters to run rampant around the castle, Dumbledore had died in the process. She couldn’t help but think that if she and Luna had stopped Snape down in the dungeons, if they had realized that he had Stunned Professor Flitwick, if they had gone after him, Dumbledore would still be…

Mrs. Weasley and Fleur were sitting by a still-unconscious Bill, holding hands. Tonks was still glaring over at Remus after a tearful and startling confession of love. Ron stared at his hands, his freckled face mirroring her own devastation.

The doors to the hospital wing burst open and Hermione jumped, startled, as Remus, Ron, Ginny, and Tonks all whipped around, their hands flying to their wands.

Blaise strode inside, his night robe billowing open, revealing his green-striped pajamas. His eyes were frantic as he scanned the beds lined along the walls, stopping when they fell on the group of wizards gathered around Bill. Hermione jumped out of her chair and hurried over to him.

“I’m okay,” she said, grabbing his shoulders, “I’m fine.”

She only got a brief look at the relief on his face before he pulled her into him, his arms wrapping tightly around her waist, face buried in her shoulder. Hermione hugged him back, glad for the comfort and warmth she felt when she was with him. For the tiniest of moments she was back in their bubble — nothing could touch her there.

“I knew you would be involved somehow,” the attempted teasing in Blaise’s words was marred by the shakiness of his voice. He sniffed as he pulled back, his arms still loosely wrapped around her, and she could see a distinct shine in his eyes. “Someone said the castle was under attack, and then that Dumbledore had…”

“He died,” she whispered, tears spilling down her face again as the guilt rushed back in.

Blaise’s eyes widened, “What happened?”

Hermione wiped her face, glancing back at the group of D.A. and Order members. Remus and Tonks had relaxed once they realized Blaise was here for Hermione, but Ron and Ginny were still eyeing him suspiciously.

She pulled Blaise away from the group, to an empty bed closer to the doors. They both perched themselves on the edge, their backs to the others.

Hermione took a deep breath, unsure of how to explain. There was so much that had happened, and large parts of the story that she couldn’t tell him. She had to skip over Harry and the Horcruxes, Dumbledore giving him lessons, Harry’s suspicion of Malfoy and his subsequent stalking, the Order of the Phoenix being in the castle to protect the students because of Dumbledore’s absence. For a moment, she felt overwhelmed by the sheer amount of information she just _couldn’t_ say.

Blaise rested his hand along her cheek, his thumb brushing under her eye, catching her stray tears. He didn’t speak, but she knew what he was doing — he was telling her that it was okay, that she didn’t have to share it all.

“We-we heard the castle was under attack too,” she lied, “So a group of us went to help.”

Blaise nodded, and there was only the tiniest hint of exasperation on his face at her Gryffindor antics.

“There was so much going on, I don’t really know how it happened but…” Hermione paused and took another breath. Her last words came out as a whisper, “Harry said that Malfoy tried to kill Dumbledore. But when he couldn’t do it...Snape did.”

The shock on Blaise’s face was real — his eyes were wide and his jaw slack. “_Snape?_”

Hermione nodded, more tears spilling down her cheeks. Blaise’s face became stony and he pulled her back into him, his arms a shield. His hands rubbed up and down her back, trying to soothe her as she sobbed into his chest. Long after her tears had dried, leaving her drained and dehydrated, he still held her close.

“Er, Mr. Zabini,” a mild voice said from behind them. Both Hermione and Blaise turned to see Remus, who looked tired and worn. He was trying to seem alright, but Hermione could see the seams, could see that he was still falling apart. “Perhaps you could escort Hermione to bed? She’s done wonderfully, but I think she might be helped by a bit of rest.”

Blaise looked startled at being addressed by their old Defense teacher, but he nodded solemnly, “Will do, Professor.”

He helped Hermione back to her feet and pulled her towards the door. They wound their way through the dark castle, Blaise’s long fingers laced through Hermione’s. She stuck close to him, her mind in a fog of fear and sadness. Blaise turned up a staircase, cursing softly under his breath as it chose that precise moment to move.

They held onto the banister as the staircase shifted from one landing to another, and when they got to the top, Blaise turned and pushed open a tapestry to their right, which revealed a corridor that wound back in the direction he had been trying to go.

“Where are we going?” Hermione asked, realizing she hadn’t been paying attention in the slightest, content to be pulled along.

“Gryffindor Tower,” Blaise said as they stepped into a larger hallway full of sleeping portraits.

Hermione bit her lip. Nothing sounded less appealing than having to go through the Gryffindor common room, where she was sure the entire House had congregated upon hearing the news. Even if the common room was deserted, there were Lavender and Parvati to consider, who would no doubt harass her for details of what had happened.

“Do we have to?” she asked.

Blaise looked down at her, considering. “I suppose not.”

With that, he pulled her in the other direction, turning a corner and wrenching open the door to the nearest classroom. It was dark, but Blaise tapped the nearest torch with his wand and it sprang alight, the other torches following its lead and lighting the room.

He waved his wand wordlessly again, and pulled Hermione further inside, leaving the door half open. Moments later, a bundle of cloth zoomed into the room and into his hands.

“Here,” he said, passing the bundle to her. She realized it was her pajamas — the flowered nightgown and black hair bonnet that she had tossed haphazardly out of her trunk earlier in the rush to find her D.A. coin.

She looked up to thank him, but Blaise had already turned away, his back to her resolutely as he waved his wand again, desks and chairs sliding around.

Blushing slightly, Hermione turned around and changed quickly, occasionally glancing over her shoulder to check that Blaise wasn’t looking, which he wasn’t. By the time she was fully clothed, bonnet pinned under her arm as she attempted to twist her hair into four passable plaits, Blaise had moved the desks around to create enough space for the pallet of blankets and pillows he had Conjured.

He came over to her, taking her half-braided plait from her hands, his fingers knocking against hers. Hermione moved to her last section of hair and began braiding it down as he finished the third. As she wound the ends of her hair around each other, Blaise carefully pulled the bonnet out from under her arm, holding it ready until she finished.

“There,” he said, sliding it over her head and then adjusting it so the band didn’t cut across her forehead.

“Thanks,” Hermione said quietly.

Together they burrowed under the blankets, Hermione sliding close enough to Blaise that she could rest her head on his chest and push her bare feet against his legs. He winced slightly, but didn’t say anything about her cold toes, instead holding her tighter and kissing her forehead.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he told her.

Hermione bit her lip. She wasn’t okay. She had almost been killed in her second battle in two years, against people who would be happy to see her dead. Dumbledore, the man who was supposed to guide them in the war ahead, who was supposed to have all of the answers, was gone. She had known, from the moment Harry had said it, that her life was about to change. The decisions she had left unmade, the responsibilities she had been trying to ignore, they were all here now. She knew what she had to do, and now that it was time she wouldn’t hesitate. But she was scared.

Rather than say all of this, she took a deep breath, allowing herself instead to stay in this moment of calm with Blaise. The world was scary and would soon have her in its clutches, but for now it was just within these four walls, in Blaise’s arms, warm and comforting.

…

Hermione woke with a start the next morning. Shouts and bangs echoed in her mind, falling stone and flashes of green light making her heart race. There was movement next to her and she started before realizing that it was only Blaise, shifting in his sleep.

She pushed herself up to a sitting position and looked down at him. He was lying on his back, head turned towards the windows on the wall to their right, where the morning sun began to shine softly through the glass, lighting his peaceful face. One hand rested under his cheek, while the other reached back to her — it had been resting against her arm before, but now that she was sitting up, his fingers grazed against her hip.

She felt a surge of guilt as she watched him, sleep smoothing out the lines of his face and reminding her how young he was, how young they all were. The night before had made it clear how dangerous things were now; not even someone as powerful and wise as Dumbledore was safe. Hermione had made a choice, as scary as it was, to fight back against the terrifying forces rallying against people like her, but she had done it with full context and an idea of what that meant, even in uncertainty. She had been fine with that, when it was just her. But now, looking down at the boy she loved, she realized how much danger he would be in now, without having made the same sort of choice.

She buried her face in her hands, trying to push down the emotions that threatened to spill over. She heard the faintest sound of movement beside her, and the hand near her hip moved up her back.

“Are you alright?” Blaise’s voice was quiet and sleepy.

Hermione shook her head vigorously. “I made a mistake,” she said, her voice muffled by her hands.

She could feel Blaise shift again, and lifted her head to see that he was pushing himself up. His hand slid from her back to her shoulder. “I’m sure you did all you could last night…”

But Hermione shook her head again, finally looking back at Blaise’s face to see that it was full of concern for her. “That’s not what I meant,” she whispered, “I shouldn’t have let us go this far.”

Blaise’s mouth popped open in surprise, his eyebrows rising, “Why do you say that?”

“I’ve put you in so much danger.” She saw Blaise’s face twist in disbelief, saw that he was about to protest, but she stopped him, placing her hand over his mouth. His breath was warm against her fingertips. “I know you don’t believe in all this — in Harry — but that doesn’t matter. Even ignoring that I’m his best friend, the fact that people know you’re with a Muggle-born puts a target on your back.”

She could feel Blaise’s frustration. He rolled his eyes, “You didn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want to do.”

“But—”

His eyes turned fierce, and he reached up to take her hand from his mouth, “I knew the decision I was making when I took your hand in the entrance hall.”

Hermione was speechless for a moment. She didn’t know how she had expected this conversation to go. Was she trying to break up with him? Was he not letting her?

“I don’t know if I’m coming back to Hogwarts next year,” she said, her voice quiet. “I haven’t talked to Harry yet, but Dumbledore—” her voice cracked on the name and she stopped herself.

“He needs your help right?” Blaise asked. “I had a feeling, after last night.”

Hermione couldn’t feel relieved at his guess, not when there was still more to say. “I don’t know how long it will take, but we can’t be in contact,” she said. “Nothing’s planned yet but it won’t be safe for us to have owls following us…”

His hand tightened around hers as he ducked his head down to make sure she would look him in the eyes. “Do what you have to do,” he said quietly, “I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll be here.”

Hermione saw the determination in his eyes, the resolution in his clenched jaw, and her already shaky resolve broke. He rested his forehead against hers and her eyes fluttered shut. Cinnamon and cloves washed over her as she inhaled, warmth rushing to the surface of her skin. Blaise’s nose brushed against hers and she felt his arm tighten around her. She found herself tilting her head up, desperate to meet his waiting lips.

…

Hermione was in her dormitory, changing out of her dress robes and into a pair of jeans and t-shirt for the train. The funeral had been beautiful, though she had cried through most of it, Blaise’s arm around her as she blew her nose into his handkerchief. And Harry had finally told them what she had already guessed — he would not be returning to Hogwarts, not when there were four more Horcruxes to find. This, of course, meant that she and Ron would be going with him, even if he had seemed puzzlingly surprised by that fact.

Even before Harry’s decision, Hermione had been preparing, going to the library to see if she could find any information on the mysterious R.A.B. person who had stolen the locket Horcrux before Harry and Dumbledore could get to it, and looking up protective spells and other difficult spellwork they might find useful in the days to come.

As she pulled her head through the head of her shirt, her eyes fell on the book sitting on the edge of her bed next to Crookshanks’ empty carrier. The title jumped out at her in bright yellow letters, _Modifying Memories: A Wizard’s Guide to Creating the Oblivious,_ and she felt her throat constrict slightly.

“I’m headed to the train,” Lavender said, breaking Hermione out of her thoughts.

“Have a wonderful summer,” Hermione said as Lavender hugged her tightly before adjusting her bag on her shoulder, “And send my best to Parvati.” She and her sister Padma had been pulled out of school the morning after Dumbledore’s murder, but Lavender had been writing her every day since.

“I will,” said Lavender, “And good luck with everything.”

Hermione pursed her lips and nodded. Even if the girl didn’t know anything about what Hermione was doing, it felt to Hermione like the best send off she could give her. As Lavender left, she turned back to her trunk, looking through it one final time to make sure she had everything. Most of these things would end up left in her room at home. She looked through her books, making sure they were properly organized. Would any of these help in their quest to find the rest of Voldemort’s Horcruxes? And if they found them, how would they destroy them?

A thought came to Hermione like a bolt of lightning. She straightened up, pulling her wand from her pocket. She went to her window and pushed it open, letting in the summer heat.

She cleared her throat, hoping this would work. “_Accio Horcrux Books_.”

It took a moment, but soon she could see them in the distance, and then they were flying through the window and into her arms. There were all old and bound in worn leather, the topmost book titled _Secrets of the Darkest Art_. Hurrying away from the window before she could start to feel guilty about stealing books, Hermione packed them in her trunk and slammed the lid shut, a sense of heaviness falling over her.

She collected Crookshanks, who had been lounging in a patch of sunlight by another window, and guided him into his carrier before grabbing her things, leaving her trunk to be transported to the train, and making her way down to the common room.

Harry and Ron were waiting for her by the portrait hole.

“Ready then?” Harry asked, his face determined as Ginny walked by them and out into the larger castle without a word. Hermione raised an eyebrow at him, but he pretended not to notice.

Ron took a deep breath, his eyes taking in the common room one last time. “Let’s go.”

The three of them made their way through the castle in silence, no doubt all deep in thought, reminiscing about their time at Hogwarts. Hermione didn’t realize how much the castle had meant to her, how it had molded and cared for her in her introduction to the magical world. She felt the weight of what had to come next, the uncertainty of the future.

Blaise was waiting for them in the entrance hall, his bag slung across his chest, holding Adonis in his cage in one hand. He nodded to Harry and Ron silently, lacing his fingers through Hermione’s as they stepped out into the sun, where the thestral-drawn carriages sat just out front.

The four of them piled into a carriage, Harry and Ron sitting across from Hermione and Blaise. Blaise kept his hand around Hermione’s the entire way, his knee pressed against hers. It was a little awkward — Harry and Ron had accepted Hermione’s relationship, but it didn’t mean they knew how (or wanted) to interact with Blaise, and Blaise seemed only to care about her, barely acknowledging that they were even there. A lump began to rise in Hermione’s throat as they rolled through the gate, away from the castle.

They found a train compartment together, and after stowing their things, Hermione sat near the window, pulling her book from her bag. Blaise sat next to her, opening _The History of a Historian_ by Bathilda Bagshot. As Hermione opened her book to the first chapter, “_Obliviate_ and it’s Variations,” she turned her back to the window, leaning back against the glass as she bent her leg up on the bench, which Blaise used as an armrest.

“I get it now,” she heard Ron whisper as the train pulled out of the station, and she glanced up briefly to see him looking pointedly at Blaise’s book. Harry grunted in assent.

Harry and Ron spent their time chatting about Quidditch and Bill and Fleur’s upcoming wedding, while Hermione and Blaise read. Eventually, Hermione shifted so that her shoulder leaned against the window, both of her feet on the ground. Blaise gave up reading, shutting his book before resting his head on Hermione’s other shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

“I, er, broke up with Ginny,” Harry said, once it was clear Blaise was asleep.

“_What?_” Ron exclaimed. Hermione looked up from her book.

Harry squirmed uncomfortably as he looked at Ron. “It’s not because I wanted to. I just didn’t want her to be in danger because of me.” He glanced at Blaise as he said it, and then to Hermione.

She tore her eyes from him, turning to stare out of the window at the passing hills. She understood why Harry did what he did, though she wasn’t sure how much of a difference it would make as long as Ginny belonged to a family full of Order members. She suddenly felt very aware of Blaise’s head on her shoulder, her eyes stinging as she remembered how these were their last few hours together. She couldn’t help but worry that her actions were endangering him, no matter what he said.

The sun had already set by the time they pulled into Platform 9 and ¾. Blaise had woken up from his nap an hour before, the four of them sharing the mound of sweets Harry had bought from the trolley lady for finality’s sake.

Harry and Ron filed out of the compartment first as the train pulled to a stop, dragging their things out onto the platform. Blaise helped Hermione with her trunk and together they followed her friends. Hermione took a steadying breath as she stepped out into the cooling night. Students spilled out onto the platform, making their way to their parents or the barrier between platforms 9 and 10, ready to go home after a long and stressful year at school.

Hermione and Blaise followed Harry and Ron to the barrier, but slowed to a stop off to the side, allowing a couple of seventh years to pass them by. Harry and Ron stopped too, but further ahead, turning away from them.

Hermione looked up at Blaise, whose jaw clenched briefly before he sniffed and looked away, his dark eyes shining. Hermione could feel her own emotions bubbling up to the surface, and in an effort to stymie them, she dove into her bag.

“I have something for you,” she said quickly, rummaging through one of the pockets until her fingers came into contact with the envelope she was searching for. She pulled it out gently and passed it to Blaise, their fingers brushing against each other as he took it from her.

He eyed her curiously before flipping the envelope open and pulling out a short stack of photographs.

“Colin took those of us at the last Quidditch match,” she said quietly, rising up on her toes slightly so that she could see the top picture. The two of them were sitting in the Quidditch stands, Blaise’s arm around her. They were supposed to be watching the game, but their eyes kept drifting off to each other, smiles spreading across their faces every time their eyes met. “He gave them to me some time ago, it just took me a while to get the chance to make copies…”

She watched Blaise’s face as he flipped to the next one, of him laughing, holding the Ravenclaw flag out of Hermione’s persistent reach. He bit his lip, his face contorting slightly as he turned to the next one: Hermione standing as she watched the match, Blaise holding her hand and watching her. Tears filled Hermione’s eyes.

“I have something for you too,” he said, sliding the photographs back into the envelope and tucking it into his cloak. He reached into his bag and pulled out a thin black box.

Hermione opened it after he passed it to her, gasping softly at the sight of the necklace, a gold chain holding a red stone the size of a Galleon.

“I have one just like it,” he said, tugging on the chain around his neck, pulling an identical stone out from under the collar of his shirt, “They’re connected — they’ll let us know when the other is safe.”

Hermione was fully crying now as she lifted the chain from the box. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Blaise smiled, wiping a stray tear from his own face, “Because you don’t have to worry about me purposely running into danger.”

He took the necklace from her hands and made her turn around so that he could fasten it around her neck. Hermione sniffed as she held her hair up, Blaise’s fingers brushing against the back of her neck. The stone rested on her chest, warm against her skin.

Hermione wiped her tears as she turned back around to face him. She could see that Blaise was struggling to stay stoic, and she raised her hand up, resting it against his cheek.

“Goodbye Blaise,” she whispered.

He slid his hand into her hair and kissed her lips gently, savoring the last moments they had. Hermione tried to commit this moment to memory, the steadiness of his hands, the softness of his lips, the warmth of their bubble, now thinning and ready to burst.

“Bye, Hermione,” Blaise murmured as he pulled away. His hands slipped from her hair, down her shoulder, and to her hand. He gave it a quick squeeze before letting go and stepping back.

Hermione bit her lip before turning away. Harry and Ron shifted awkwardly as she caught up with them, ready to journey with them into the unknown.


	10. 1 Year Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaise and Hermione reunite.

Blaise stood in the entrance of the Great Hall, his mind in a daze. His head throbbed just over his right eye, which was almost swollen shut. Pain shot through his ankle with every new step, and he gripped his wand tightly, still unable to relax his muscles though He Who Must Not Be Named had called a truce ten minutes ago.

He felt exhausted, his body heavy not just from the exertion of the night’s events, but the strain the entire school year had put on him. His seventh year at Hogwarts hadn’t been easy, though he hadn’t expected it to be. His fellow housemates had both targeted and isolated him, their anger at his choice to date a Muggle-born having festered over the summer break rather than faded. He knew how to defend himself, but it was the loneliness that made it difficult, more so than the taunts and attempted hexes in the halls. The few Slytherins he had been friendly with in the past had begun to ignore him so as not to call attention to themselves. The only person who had really paid him any mind had been the odd Luna Lovegood, but even she had disappeared just before Christmas, taken by Death Eaters on the train home. 

The hardest part was being apart from Hermione. He hadn’t seen or heard from her since the end of the year before, when they’d said goodbye on the train platform. Occasionally, the _Daily Prophet_ would release news of Harry Potter’s whereabouts — a Ministry break-in early in the school year, a sighting near Ottery St. Catchpole around Christmas, an escape from Gringotts Bank on a dragon just that morning — and Blaise would take it as a good sign, telling himself that Potter wouldn’t still be alive if Hermione wasn’t there to keep him in check.

He kept the chain connecting them around his neck at all times, the red stone resting on his chest under his robes. Right now it was cool, but he supposed no one was safe at the moment, so he tried not to let it get to him. It was often closer to this temperature than to the warmth he had felt when she first put it on. There had been a few times when it had dipped, freezing his skin and causing fear to rise in his chest. The first time had been early in the summer, a full two hours where he wondered what danger had befallen Hermione and whether she would survive it. It had dipped again briefly right around the Ministry break-in and again around the Gringotts escape, but the two worse by far had been during the Christmas and Easter holidays, where Blaise had worried the stone would actually burn his skin with the cold, had worried that the worst had come for the girl he had so surprisingly and completely fallen in love with the year before.

It was the necklace that woke him up this night, not so bad as the worst times, but still startling him out of his sleep regardless. Moments later, one of the third year boys had rushed into the room, telling Blaise, Draco, Theo, Crabbe, and Goyle that Slughorn was calling for them to come to the Great Hall right this second.

Blaise had thrown on his shoes and cloak over his pajamas, confused and groggy. As he came out of the Slytherin common room with the rest of his House he began to hear whispers. The Carrows had been attacked in Ravenclaw Tower, Snape had left the school, Harry Potter was here.

It had felt as if a huge bell was clanging in his head — his only thought was Hermione, loud and glaring, drowning out any drowsiness he had up to that point. His eyes immediately began to scan the Great Hall once he made it inside, scrutinizing each and every Gryffindor at the table on the other side of the room as he sat down. His stomach lurched when he saw Potter, dark-haired and grim, but Hermione was nowhere to be found.

He’d told himself not to panic — his necklace hadn’t become any colder and he couldn’t find Weasley anywhere either, though most of his siblings and even his parents seemed to be there, standing up with the teachers at the front of the room.

Professor McGonagall began to speak, telling the entire school that He Who Must Not Be Named was here, that they would begin evacuating students before mounting a defense, that Professor Snape had run away, abandoning them for his master. Just as she began to dole out instructions to the prefects, a high cold voice pierced the air, sending a chill up Blaise’s spine.

“I know that you are preparing to fight,” the voice said, “Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood.”

Blaise had felt a fear almost stronger than what he had felt back in December and April, hair rising on the back of his neck. He had clenched his fists to keep them from trembling.

“Give me Harry Potter and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded. You have until midnight.”

Silence filled the hall, and Blaise felt an overwhelming urge to run to safety, to leave before things got out of hand — because he knew they would. There was no way the teachers or the majority of students would give Potter up.

“But he’s there!” Pansy Parkinson shrieked from down the table, “Potter’s _there_! Someone grab him!”

As Blaise had expected, the Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws had all stood, making it clear that Potter was protected.

“Thank you, Miss Parkinson,” Professor McGonagall said, “You will leave the Hall first with Mr. Filch. If the rest of your House could follow.”

Blaise had stood then, eager to get as far away from the castle as possible. He filed out of the Great Hall after two first years, winding up the stairs and down the halls toward the seventh floor. He was halfway there when he’d stopped, suddenly remembering Hermione. He thought about her worried gaze, as she had explained to Blaise in vague terms what she had to do. He thought about the way she was always studying, even after exams were canceled, preparing as best she could for the terror to come. He thought about her words, in one of the first letters she had sent him during their correspondence the Christmas before last.

_It’s terrifying, but I know I can’t just step aside and let it continue._

Hermione was sacrificing so much for herself, her friends, and Muggle-borns everywhere who were being hunted, imprisoned, and killed just for being born to parents without magic. How could he, someone who was protected by his own magical ancestry, sit back and allow her to go through all that without doing his part to help?

With that, he turned around, pushing against the swelling crowd and back down towards the Great Hall. On the second floor, he ran into Professor McGonagall, leading a group of fighters.

“We’re mounting a defense from Gryffindor Tower,” Parvati Patil told him when she saw him slow to a halt before them.

And so he had gone with the group, hoping Hermione might show up and determined to do his part to fight against the hate that had been festering in the wizarding world for ages.

He didn’t see Hermione at all during the fight, not even when he ended up in the entrance hall, fighting side by side with Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan. Debris from a nearby explosion had hit his head, cutting his eyebrow and swelling his eye shut. He had slipped on the emeralds from the Slytherin hourglass scattered across the entrance hall, twisting his ankle.

And then the Dark Lord had called a truce, giving them an hour of respite, to hand Potter over, before it would start all over again.

Blaise had limped his way back into the castle from the dark grounds, where he, Ernie Macmillan, and a few others had pushed back a group of acromantula, and now he entered the Great Hall, his eyes scanning the injured and shaken defenders of the castle. Even in his exhaustion and pain he was trying his best to stay strong for the next wave, for Hermione.

His eyes skated over the Patil twins sitting near a stirring, unrecognizable figure, past a weary and battle-worn Neville Longbottom, before they came to a halt at a large group of red-haired people, huddled closely around a body on the floor. He did a double-take at the sight of a curvy figure with thick curly hair, arms tight around the red-haired girl.

Blaise froze, and for a moment he thought maybe he was hallucinating, which wasn’t entirely impossible given how tired he felt. But then the red-haired girl broke away, turning to one of her brothers, and the figure turned. Hermione.

She was thinner than when Blaise had last seen her, her brown face drawn and gaunt. The knees of her jeans were stained with mud, rubble and dust riddled through her dark hair, the bottom of her jacket burned. She put a hand to her face, wiping away tears.

And then her brown, beautiful eyes met his and Blaise could feel his throat constrict briefly, felt a swooping sensation in his stomach, as if the ground had dropped out from beneath him.

“Blaise,” her voice was no higher than a whisper, but still he heard it, his skin warming at the sound of her.

“Hi,” he tried to smile, his voice cracking with the emotion that had suddenly come rushing through him.

Hermione looked in shock. He could see her taking him in, her eyes lingering on his swollen eye. Before he could say anything more, she had closed the gap between them, grabbed his arms, and was pulling him to the nearest empty bench.

She forced him to sit down, sliding the beaded bag strapped across her chest to the front and plunging her arm deep inside it.

“It’s got to be in here somewhere,” she muttered to herself, before saying, “I don’t think there’s much left, but it should be _just_ enough.”

Blaise stared at her, feeling as if he had entered a dream.

“Hermione,” he said, though his voice didn’t come out as strong as he wished.

She didn’t seem to hear him, cursing under her breath before drawing an unfamiliar wand from the inside of her jacket and pointing it into the opening of the bag, muttering “_Accio Dittany._”

A small brown bottle flew up into her hand and she slipped the wand away. Her hands shook slightly as she pulled the stopper out and then slid her free hand along the side of his face to keep him still, leaving what felt like a trail of fire along his skin. She tipped the bottle over his eye, and Blaise could feel the liquid drip into his cut. It burned at first, but then quickly cooled as his eye began to open back up, allowing him to see her clearer.

Hermione immediately turned her head from him, craning her neck. “I need to find Madam Pomfrey, she would be much more thorough—”

“Hermione,” Blaise said, his voice stronger. He reached up to touch her face, to pull it back to face him. Her eyes were wide, fear on her face. “I’m okay.”

One moment, she was staring at him, her lip trembling and eyes filling with tears as she searched his face, and the next her arms were tight around his neck, her head on his shoulder and hair in his eyes. Blaise wrapped his arms around her waist and closed his eyes, inhaling her familiar scent of fresh parchment and rosemary, mingled in with the dust and sweat of battle.

After a long moment, Blaise pulled her down to sit on his good leg. Her arms loosely rested on his shoulders, and even as the stone on his chest stayed at room temperature, he felt comfort just having her here in his arms.

His eyes raked over her, taking in the faint burns across her jawline and forehead, the arch of her eyebrows, her teeth gnawing on her bottom lip, the gold chain peeking out from under her t-shirt. He frowned at the thin scar at the base of her throat, and before he knew it he was reaching out, running his thumb over it.

“I’m okay,” she said, quickly reading the question on his face. But her face darkened and her voice trembled, “It was a gift from Malfoy’s aunt.”

Blaise felt a surge of anger and shame, but both emotions died in his chest at the sight of the worry on Hermione’s face.

“I think Harry’s going to go to Voldemort,” she whispered, as if she was afraid to say it any louder, to speak it into existence.

He frowned, “Why would he do that? Everyone’s fighting to keep him safe.”

“That’s just it,” she said, shaking her head, “I know him. He can’t take people dying for him any longer.”

Blaise didn’t know what to say to that. He rubbed her back, hoping that at the very least she would feel some comfort in the gesture. She leaned her head back down on his shoulder.

“I don’t know what will happen next,” he murmured to her, “But whatever does, we’ll stick together, alright?”

Hermione nodded, and Blaise felt a new surge of purpose as her lips grazed his jaw. They would get through this. They had to.

…

A few hours later, Blaise was sitting on a different bench, his leg elevated as Madam Pomfrey tapped his ankle. The pain in it stopped immediately, his ankle now given full range of motion.

Hermione had brought him straight to the matron once He Who Must Not Be Named had been defeated, but it had taken her a while to get to him, given the more pressing injuries of others. Hermione had sat with him while he waited, until Weasley turned up, saying that Potter wanted to speak with them. Hermione had nodded, turning to kiss Blaise’s temple before going off with Weasley, assuring him that she would be back.

He saw her now, reentering the Great Hall just as Madam Pomfrey finished checking him for other bruises and cuts.

“You’re alright now, Mr. Zabini,” she told him, giving him a kind look before moving on to the next injured person.

Blaise thanked her as he stood. He made his way across the Great Hall, over to where Hermione was speaking in a rapid pace with Professor McGonagall. Weasley nodded to him as he approached.

“Listen,” he said, his voice hushed, “Make Hermione get some rest, will you?”

Blaise glanced behind Weasley at Hermione, her voice rising above the low din of the Hall.

“...can take a group of people up to the towers? They must be a mess…”

He felt a familiar and welcome exasperation, and looked back to Weasley. He looked pale, shoulders drooped from both exhaustion and grief. “What about you?”

Weasley rubbed his face, “Need to check on my mum and brother. But then I’m taking a long nap.”

Blaise nodded in understanding, but stopped in surprise when Weasley held a hand out to him. Feeling strange, Blaise shook it once before Weasley offered him a smile and walked away.

Hermione turned to Blaise as Professor McGonagall left the Hall.

“I was talking to McGonagall, and I think if we start at the top of the castle and work our way down, that might be the most efficient way to make sure everything is back the way it should be.”

Blaise fought to keep his face blank. He reached out and took her hand, her familiar grip sending small jolts of electricity up his arm. “Let’s go to the Quidditch pitch.”

Hermione frowned at him in confusion, “What needs to be done there?”

Blaise shook his head, “Just come on.”

He pulled her out of the castle, into the cool morning air. Thinning smoke covered the rising sun, but he could feel it warming his skin. They walked in silence across the scorched grass, around huge fallen stones, and past a fallen giant. The pitch loomed up ahead, the only part of the grounds untouched.

Blaise came to a halt in the very center of the pitch, the empty stands rising above them.

When he turned to look at Hermione, he saw that she was still frowning.

“Blaise, why are we here? There’s loads to do,” she said, her eyes sharp. “We need to look through the castle to make sure there are no more injured or fallen. The Room of Requirement might be ruined forever, but someone should check. And the common rooms should all be inspected to make sure—”

“Hermione,” Blaise said calmly, taking both of her hands in his own. He looked down at her fiercely. “Just take a deep breath. It’s okay now. You’re safe.”

She stared up at him, startled by his words. Slowly, they seemed to sink in. She opened her mouth to speak, but shut it before trying again, sounding astonished. “I suppose you’re right.”

Keeping one hand in hers, Blaise drew his wand and Conjured a thin blanket, to provide a barrier between them and the dewy grass. They lay down together on their sides, hands propping themselves up, facing each other. Blaise watched Hermione’s face, watched her watch him, her eyes blinking slowly in her weariness. He reached out, resting his hand on the curve of her hip and nudging her closer.

“Will you come to Australia with me?” Hermione blurted out.

“Yes,” Blaise answered, without a thought. “Why Australia?”

She bit her lip, shifting uncomfortably. “I, er, sent my parents there last summer. I didn’t want Voldemort coming after them to try to get to Harry so I changed their memories and gave them new lives. In case I couldn’t come back.”

Blaise watched her fight with her emotions, and remembered the way she had spoken to him at the end of last year, how terrible she had felt at the thought that she had put him harm’s way. He was just realizing himself how much she had prepared, how much she had done to protect those she loved.

“Of course I’ll come with you,” he murmured, leaving out the fact that he had no plans to let her out of his sight at this point. He moved his hand from her hip to her face, caressing her cheek with his thumb. “I love you.”

Hermione’s tired face lit up, her entire body relaxing at his words. “Me too.”

They leaned into each other then, and Hermione’s lips were a wonderful familiarity, soft and sweet against his own. Blaise slid his fingers into her thick hair and felt a flutter in his chest, and as Hermione pressed closer to him he could see their futures, stretching out endlessly before them.


End file.
